Reflections on apple picking

Woodsmoke drifts in quiet spirals,
Settling into the folds of autumn.
The orchard hums with its slow labor,
Apples softening in the cool light of day.

Hands reach, unhurried, for the fallen fruit,
Pennies earned beneath the low sun.
Time gathers in jars and barrels,
The tang of cider resting deep in earth.

Evening descends, golden and unbroken,
The breath of the past carried on the wind.
In this fleeting light, the seasons turn,
And we are rooted, as ever, to their song.