September

The breezes taste

of apple peel.

The air is full

of smells to feel -

ripe fruit, old footballs,

burning brush,
new books, erasers,
chalk and such.
The bee, his hive,
well-honeyed hum,
and Mother cuts
Chrisanthemums.
Late plates washed clean
with suds, the days
are polished with
a morning haze.
        `John Updike, September

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