The sound of fall
Not falling leaves or trick-or-treaters
But a bite of you, dear apple,
Your could not be sweeter.
All year I pine
And wait anxiously for your arrival
Tolerating other tastes
Biding my time; it is pure survival.
Then the signs appear--
Oh what joy and rapture are mine--
To see you in the market
Bringing arm-fulls of you to my home to dine.