Apple Harvest. By Rebekah Frye (Who hates Bluegrass music but found it fitting for the poem). The trees had slept through the dark, chilling winter, waiting…. The spring had brought blossoms, Like tiny puffs of pink satin clinging to the branches .
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Then we would go and pick.
How many bushels till the apple pickings done?
My brother and I smelled the sickly, sweet scent of fallen apples,Sitting silently awaiting ovens or the apple butter kettle.The orchards looked like a giant maze,Trees going on and on to the skyline.
Telling my brother and I where the biggest apples were.
Soon Dad’s voice would call out from somewhere far away in the trees.My brother and I would gather our delicious loot and race back through the maze.
Gala, York, Jonathan, Empire.
Now were going home.