Fallobst

In late autumn, just before the frost of winter causes everything to freeze, when the leaves have fallen, the farmer occasionally walks through his meager orchards and collects the last apples that have fallen from the trees. Most of them are already rotten and shriveled, moldy and nibbled, but some still seem to be edible. He carefully picks these and takes them home. In the warm room, it turns out that some of what he considered worth picking is no longer suitable for consumption upon closer inspection, as the worm has long been inside the core, happily gnawing away. Other apples, on the other hand, are already decayed or taste sour because they were not ripe when they fell from the branch. The farmer is not disheartened if the fruits that no longer find favor end up on the large compost heap of forgetfulness, where they belong. The few that appear good and fresh, he tries to preserve and can, so that there will still be fruits to eat in the house later. As long as the last warm days of autumn continue and a few little apples still fall from the already bare trees, the old farmer tirelessly sets out to gather what he can find under the trees of knowledge in his basket.