(based on Sunday at the Apple Orchard by Peter Meinke)
September, autumn in the air, temperatures
cooling,
that crisp bite of a morning chill,
sweater weather
in the waning season of summer, fall
settling in,
and the orchards now taking on a life
of their own,
reds and greens and yellows heavy
on the branches,
ripe for picking, plucked for pies
and tarts, apple sauce
and cider, apples ripe for eating
right off the tree;
and in the air, refreshed this
Sunday afternoon,
apple smell everywhere; breathe
it in, long breaths
taking in that sweet smell, making
us for one Sunday
afternoon free to remember other
autumn days
long gone by, first days of school,
squeaky floors
and chalk dust, and Saturday
football games, a marching
band, and a still remembered school
fight song sung
loud amidst the cheering crowd,
bleachers swaying,
thunderous roars and points scored,
and her hand
warm in my own, years ago and
still, if only in memory,
at the apple orchard, apple
smell everywhere … free
and happy as people must have
been meant to be.
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