The Apple Picker
by Sara Ashley Orr

On a silent morning of the fall
In the waking orchard small
He comes out to pluck from the apple tree
The harvest of summer’s toil for me

The ripe fruit has a reddish hue
Slightly damp with morning’s dew
Each apple bears a leaf and a stem
To which is connected a broad tree limb

Carefully he hand picks each one
Standing on a ladder for him to reach
Then one by one the apples fall to the ground
And hit the dirt with a thud like sound

The apple picker’s clothes are worn
His shirt is scratched, his pants are torn
The hand sewn leather boots have tears
So does the flannel hat he wears

I bend down to gather apples from the ground
The apple picker makes no sound
I say, "Thank you" but no reply is heard
The apple picker disappeared without a word

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Poem Copyright © 2000 by Sara Ashley Orr

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