One of my favourite poets is Robert Frost.  His work is accessible to even the novice poetry reader.  But there are layers to it as well.  Though I don’t write rhyming poetry myself,  I appreciate the rhythmic feel.  Nothing is forced or artificial.

Having picked apples myself, I can identify with the picker reaching as far as possible but not able to get them all and having to move the ladder again. Not liking standing on a ladder myself, I remember climbing the tree instead and reaching as far as I could, trying to balance on the branch and hold my basket too, or picking from the loader on Dad’s tractor.

We smell the tartness of the apples, see the sky through the branches,  see the russet spots on the fruit, and hear the apples  rolling down a chute as they are loaded into some storage space, even the promise of apple cider where the poor ones go so as little as possible is wasted.

My neighbour and I talked this evening about things one gives up, when it’s time for someone else to do it. For him, it’s climbing a ladder to repair something on the roof. At his age, he’s ready to let someone else do it.

But Frost goes farther than apple picking to something loftier and eternal. He talks about some human sleep as he does in the poem, Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening ( on the same site), and I think I know where he’s going with that. The speaker almost seems to long for that eternal rest.  A feeling that’s hard to describe, but felt nevertheless. It’s a good poem, real and honest.

Here’s a taste of the poem, then follow the link to read the rest of it.  Enjoy!

After Apple Picking, by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.

Read the rest here.