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

“September” by John Updike.