I like apples. Crispy apples. I also like summer. I really like warm weather. The high this weekend was 14 degrees Farenheight. That's cold. And so, when I read this poem, it really struck a chord with me;
The apples are seasoned
And ripe and sound.
Gently they fall
On the yellow ground.
The apples are stored
In the dusky bin
Where hardly a glimmer
Of light creeps in.
In the firelit, winter
Nights, they'll be
The clear sweet taste
Of a summer tree!
- Frances Frost
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