In Defense of Apples

               Suppose an Apple

               of Queen Elizabeth I
               who lifted her spirits
               by its smell,
               and a boy tipping
               one after another into
               the pounder, of cider,
               of calvados,
               of Pliny who told
               about those who ate naught
               and lived by
               this smell alone. Suppose
               from a filigree of
               raggedy rows,
               from windfalls pillowed
               beneath
               laden branches,
               one --
               perfect in the palm
               round, firm
               smelling of morning,
               of crispin, ginger gold,
                jonathan, winesap from
               the Shenandoah Valley,
               of gravenstein,
               paula red and ruby jon,
               of peelings yellow, green, red
               and nearly black,
               of firm white flesh
               sweet and tart.
               Crunch.

                            Wanda McCollar