Maybe dad thought crabbed as in apples
meant the end of monotony,
that stubbed and wormed fruit
might bless our northeast corner shade
with a crooked hodgepodge of leaf fall.
Boughs of golden delicious and honeycrisp
would make nothing unusual happen.
But diabolical bobs
were dislodged when bumped,
trampled into pulp when foul
and too weird to be used for pie.
Grey Sparrow Journal 