Bobbing for Apples

In masquerade, In character, They gather near the cider, Masks straining to conceal What the costumes work to reveal: Tomboys transformed into princesses and angels The chaste darkened into witches Bookworms stand aloof; Makeshift capes flapping over tights and boots Honor students sprout horns, tails and pitchforks Buccaneers and Gypsies throng among the gourds. In his small town, Charring the fields now fallow, Harvest bonfires sing of the bounty: This winter will know no hunger. Standing silent, under the brim of her witches' hat, She smiles at him. Amidst the music and flickering shadows, She is all he sees. Smiling back, He plunges his face Forward into the wet and sweet unknown And bites Into the tender fruit That is His prize.