I often run past this orchard. Corn is grown on the upper west of the field while the apple trees run along the white fence. The apple trees remind me of the poem “After Apple-Picking” by Robert Frost; it is not because of the most obvious reason, but because I had to memorize the poem in high school English. In fact, our teacher, Mr. Wurston, had us memorize two poems. It was hard and embarrassing in front of all the class. But I did survive. 

If you are my age, then you can remember memorizing things. Phone numbers, addresses, landmarks. Kind of hard to memorize things now, right? I still remember my phone numbers of my neighbors, some of my friends, and my old addresses. 

But back to the apple orchard. Apple means ‘afalen”, with variations in Celtic, old Scottish and Irish Gaelic and has deep connections with the Isle of Avalon, which is the mythical island from the Arthurian Legend, Camelot. King Arthur’s sword was made in Avalon. I love King Arthur legends and stories. 

After a rain, in the fall, there is a faint smell of apples when running by. Not rotten, but earthy, like apple-cider, even after all the apples have been picked. 

In the winter, the apple trees are stark and beautiful. Especially with the sky as the backdrop. 

In the spring, I stopped and took pictures of the pretty blossoms. You could here the humming zone of the bees and I wanted nothing more than to sit and tree-bathe if I could have. Time seems to dissolve while standing there with my eyes closed, the morning sun on my back. 

I don’t even know what kind of apple is grown in this orchard. Here is my poem about the apple orchard.

The Apple Orchard

Summer, apple red and fragrant air. 
A thrush sings from a branch afar.
Golden apples dangle down.

In the fall, harvest calls.
Golden leaves crunch beneath my feet.
The cool breeze whistles through the trees.

Winter sleep, stark branches reach
Grey clouds gather overhead.
White fence keeps watch.

Until we see the pink puds of spring,
I sync with the rhythm of the seasons.