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Apples grow in New Hampshire.
Wild they ripen, tame and feral
From summer sun to Christmas Carol,
But the fall scent
Of those allowed to overgrow
Perfumes the air
From bluebird flight to lasting snow.
Apples grown on orchard trees
Are picked and sold
And some are squeezed.
Apples wild in forest wood
Seldom bear
Much fruit that's good.
But apples on abandoned farms
Still drop fine fruit
In nature's arms.
Both mouse and bird do make full use
Of choicest flesh
And apple juice.
Deer and coon are sure to stop
At slightest cache
Of windfall drop.
And as I've gone along my way
More than once I've paused
To pray.
Meeting God
I just stand mute
And breath the scent
Of autumn's fruit.
A poem extolling the benefits of apples accompanied by some lovely imagery that so enhances this delightful rendering.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 34,000 poems.
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loved this stanza:
But apples on abandoned farms
Still drop fine fruit
In nature's arms.
I agree it felt like a series of poems here. This was a great read for a chilly morning!
~anna
Excellent imagery of
Apple orchards and free trees and
All that they evoke.
BTW, they also grow here in NY.
I thouroughly enjoyed your poem (~_~) think I'll have an apple now <grin
The line "Wild they ripen, tame and feral" caught me up a bit, though. I know (well, think) you mean "wild" to refer to how the fruit is growing and "tame" and "feral" to contrast domesticated and native strains, but for me the line reads like both redundancy and oxymoron. I guess I'd say I think it over clever, given the "simple" style of the rest of the poem.
In the penultimate line, "breathe" is misspelled.
Very nice read.
I can certainly smell the apples!
Thank you for conjuring summer orchards for me at this time of year.
*hugs*
wso