So generous, the apple tree,
Giving up your prized possessions.
We take them all like stolen children.
Fall. Pick your own.
Thousands of apples growing from your arms.
Climbing, hanging, pulling, picking, eating,
Sometimes just one bite.
Clunk. Another tossed to the ground.
Discarded jewels, breaking your heart.
We are so judgmental, always critiquing your work;
Too tart, not crisp, nor perfectly symmetrical.
Yet you are so forgiving,
Creating gems again and again.
Every September.