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Apple Poems




I sat all morning under 

the dogwoods,

waited for leaves to fall

as if they were apples

baking in brown sugar.





I reach for apples

as if they are sunburst guitars,

even though yellow jackets 

walk the strings, and leaves 

rattle like rusting 






When you smile, I see

baskets of apples,

when you laugh,

they come 


        into my press.


The cider oozes at sunrise

while I drunkenly yodel to yellow

poplars among the pines.



    --John Thomas York

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