Apple Orchard Poem by John Taylor

An apple falls slowly down,
Hitting the ground with a plop.
It joins others down there,
Waiting for more to drop.

Sun is rising over the orchard,
Apples, red as a flare.
Yellow jackets fly to them,
Buzzing sounds filling the air.

A tractor forever mired in weeds,
Rusty and leaning in a brook.
John ‘ eer can be made out
On faded green paint if you look.

Next to this old tractor stands,
A marble slab that’s worn and gray.
Upon it is engraved a name,
The tractor’s owner beneath the clay.