It was my father’s end of winter. And my lively spring horizon, Where he gave apple seeds to pit. I found soil in the spring, And spread myself thin, As I tended the saplings. My father died in the summer, And I inherited his wondering, About apple blossoms in the orchard. But before I could muse, it was fall. It’s Harvest time; I must pick a tree. The cold bodes – my apples will rot.