The apple cart came rumbling down the street br Pushed by the apple man who’d piled it high br With golden ruddies, juicy firm and sweet, br Their happy nipples pointing at the sky. br br We saw the pyramid he’d built with care, br Picking each fruit and placing it so that br Not one pure skin was bruised, the perfect fare br Presented like a treasure on which sat br br A crown of apple leaves and painted sign: br “Picked this very morning by my hand! ” br He meant to say “These apples are all mine br So buy them dearly from my apple stand.” br br Around the market women push and scrum, br Bargaining, flirting with the country men, br Filling their baskets, peach and pear and plum br And purple eggplant, then they come again br br To stare at rosy apples on the cart br Too perfect to disturb, the farmer still br And smiling by his rosy work of art, br The crown of leaves upon the apple hill. br br Then all alone a girl with face aglow br Walks up, admires and looks him in his eyes; br She wants the apples on the bottom row, br She’ll pay whatever she has got, implies br br That never will he find one such as she br Who’ll bite his apples with such sharpened teeth br And savor every drop: the cider tree br Will spread its heady fame, the fruit beneath br br Is what she wants, and leaning near br He lets her reach and pull one apple out… br The country apples lose their last frontier, br Collapsing on the cobbles, roll about br br And many lost, he scrambles to retrieve br The ones remaining, lying at his feet, br While listening, continuing to believe br The cider from them will be fresh and sweet. br br 12.21.