Thursday, September 23, 2010


The breezes taste of apple peel. The air is full of smells to feel. Ripe fruit, old footballs, burning brush, new books, erasers, chalk and such. The bee, his hive, well-honeyed hum, and mother cuts chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean with suds, the days are polished with a morning haze.
John Updike

The goldenrod is yellow, the corn is turning brown.
The trees in apple orchards, with fruit are bending down.

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