When I drive by the farm I see the orchard, Branches burdened with apples, Burlap bags lumpy with the fruit Lying on the ground Waiting to be trucked off to the Cider mill. I see lines of proud trees Planted by Grandpa, Bearing dignified, Old fashioned names I've Long forgotten. I see an apple war, My brothers playfully hurling the Knobby fruit at one another And then dodging for cover Behind a tree. It's strange that I always see my Apple orchard; Because anyone else driving past that Spot Simply sees an empty Lot. |