Suppose an Apple of Queen Elizabeth I who lifted her spirits by its smell, and a boy tipping one after another into the pounder, of cider, of calvados, of Pliny who told about those who ate naught and lived by this smell alone. Suppose from a filigree of raggedy rows, from windfalls pillowed beneath laden branches, one-- perfect in the palm round, firm smelling of morning, of crispin, ginger gold, jonathan, winesap from the Shenandoah Valley, of gravenstein, paula red and ruby jon, of peelings yellow, green, red and nearly black, of firm white flesh sweet and tart. Crunch.                           Del Sol Review,                                        summer 2003