I feel the cool, cool breeze, 

on a burning day, tickle my nose, 

the maturing corn fragrant, 

the tassels denoting matriculation 

to another kind of destiny. 

 

I see the apples bursting, 

crashing in their tumble 

from branches taller than me, 

the height of summer approaching, 

the dawn of pie making nearer. 

 

I hear the pea sheller complain 

about another thankless chore, 

unaware about how we smash them  

into our mashed potatoes, 

the gravy their pool of delight. 

 

I smell the late evening petrichor, 

heavy with oak and mown grass, 

each note part of a feverish melody, 

the tune repeating, as familiar as 

the memories laid bare before me. 

 

I taste the pungent cherries, 

the patient lesson about pitting, 

keeping as much flesh as possible, 

the ghosts watching my hands, 

the heads nodding eternal approval.