"Now there she goes again, the dopest Ethiopian, And now the world around me be gets movin in slow motion Whenever she happens to walk by, why does the apple of my eye Overlook and disregard my feelings no matter how much I try?"

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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 Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

— John Updike