It fits square in the round of palm
With promised heft belies its charm
A burnished gold a crimson rouge
A mix of both is what I choose
Plucked off tree it’s soft with heat
Yet still I cannot help but eat
Perfect crisped in cellar hold
I do prefer its flesh quite cold
The sound it makes when teeth break skin
A snap, a shoosh, juice drips down chin
There’s nothing quite like fruit of apple
As youth, in orchard, with a lapful
Oh magic made when it’s transformed
Sweet or salty, chilled or warmed
An apple pie is oh so fine
And pork with apples is divine!
Our breadth of meals would be so hapless
If ever trees grew bare and app-less
Though people pass them up as stale
(They don’t refuse it as an ale!)
But there’s one thing I know for sure
There’s little else that tastes as pure
When spiced and mulled in heavy mug
Familiar as a mother’s hug…
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