Apple Picking
Mid-September, given homework done and chores
Done for the day, I would go to the orchards.
At first, only looking, for the right red fruit
Among brothers, red, green, cherished like loot.
I picked the first one and the tree snapped back
Like catapults: a tree under attack
From mothers and sons with a deep lust for
Picking.  The basket swelled with red ones galore
All different types, Fuji, Gala, Braeburn
But mothers and sons opinions not turned.
Round red orbs, hanging from the tall trees
Were still there unpicked swaying in the breeze,
Until the sun had gone down over the rolling
Sea of trees, and eyes open and eyes blinking
Looked the same to us.  Our bellies were full
With white flesh, our smiles big as moons.

The small car was packed with soggy brown bags.
Mothers and sons grinning at their winnings,
Enough to make a dozen apple pies.
Then we found all the worms.  Our loots demise
Had come quick this year, we always get to cook some.
But not this year I suppose. I heard flies hum
In the back of our sweet soggy small car.
This year we did not make it very far.