Windfall of apples ripening in the orchard:
I count the fallen ones and put them in my skirt.
I carry them inside to the country store,
A wooden box with a jingling bell tied to the door.
A man in a gray hat sees my burden, asks
“How do you like them apples?,” and trembles
With a laugh that sounds like the bell on the door.
He has the face of a child who is very old.
Walking to meet me, he takes off his hat
And fills it with my apples so we can split the load.
I say thank-you in silence as he leads me
Past the shelves of jellies and jams and all kinds
Of remarkable things: a tree made of pencils,
A silver train whistle, a line of tin soldiers
Standing stiff beside a cider jar.
I feel giddy as a passerine bird.
We come to a small room at the back of the store
Where the sunlight is coming in.
Over a table someone has posted a sign:
APPLE SANCTUARY, it says, in red marker.
We hold our breaths, puffed up with suspense,
And let our apples tumble down.