At times on weekend rambles We have come upon an old Apple tree by the roadside, A straggler no doubt where an orchard Once flourished. Curled in the grass, Felled by an early frost, Bright windfalls drowse in the sun. We pick one up and notice A blemish or two, yet something, Perhaps a fragrance, a near- Perfect cheek of the apple, Tempts us to wipe it off And taste it. What a pleasant Sensation. The flavor is both Sweet and a little tart, Delicious beyond the words To describe it. No wonder the bees Are drawn to the scene. We ponder The apple's name: not winesap, Or pippin, or northern spy. No matter. We fill our pockets, Glad that we happened by.