Drying grasses climb the hillsides,
dotted with fall’s hues: saffron, lavender, rust.
Below lies an orchard--trees holding York Imperials,
ripe for the picking.

Branches meander, intertwine, and cross.
Some bow low to extend their offerings;
others strain to hide a Golden Delicious
overhead, out of reach.

The trees’ leaves darken, harden, and curl.
Feet fall upon those that have
drifted to the ground; the crunch
mimics the apple’s crisp bite.

The Rome Beauties are dimpled and pock-marked,
their surfaces spotlit by the sun.
Fist-sized with sloping sides
and bobbing heads--dangling, waiting.

Aside from the worm-claimed and the decayed,
the pick is yours.