Hail the apple
the fruit which blossoms
in high wedding season
and lasts until snow dances
from the sky
red-cheeked children
coming in from the cold
for a crisp tangy-sweet wedge
smeared with peanut butter
apples the last holdout of summer
with names like Winesap
            your tee-totaling great aunt
            who claims to have had her hand
            kissed by Liberace
like Ida Red
            the girl across the street
            whispered about
            who ran off to join the circus
            or maybe the sandanistas
or Granny Smith
            with her state fair apple pie
            and gleaming jars of apple butter
            for warm toast
to tide you over
until asparagus steals the show
standing straight and tall.