Virgin white but flustered by a nosey bee, the apple blossom blushes pink, and around her dance the leaves which will remain long after she has gone.
But while they see the summer through, where the blossom had made her pretty debut, and almost as soon had disappeared, a little dull something grows and greens and then begins to ripen.
I'll measure its progress with my eye, anticipating sweetness.
A bite into an apple pulled freshly from a tree is a taste of autumn that only in the autumn
is true to what it ought to be.
There's a sharpness on the tongue and a crunch between the teeth and smell sent straight from childhood when scrumping illicitly.
That apple was my delight; a reward I long hoped for, but when I looked one morning, nothing now was there.
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