How we all love to pick apples,

sink expectant teeth into unsuspecting flesh

that spews sweet spray onto one another’s faces

 

the crunch a clarion call - and come they do!

How my boy, not yet two, would grab and gnaw

his little white teeth across the red surface,

 

sink slowly into the sweetness hiding there

to his eye-widening delight; and how I imagine

him slinging his own baby boy across his slim back

 

reaching the same long arms for one, then another,

testing four teeth against the slippery skin

and likely dropping it before he gains traction enough

 

for a true taste. What is it about fall

that brings a grown daughter home every year

to climb a tree, snap a few selfies

 

and slide more than a few luscious bites

of Macintosh, Macoun and Cortland into her

waiting mouth? To the other, I mail packages

 

packed with care to preserve a pair of Mac’s

and a jar of jam. Already I have stewed and frozen

vats of Macinsauce, simmered pints of golden brown

 

apple butter, baked muffins and pie and crisp

and crumble, all this New England fare of yore

begging for more. How grateful I for the crunch

 

of each fall afresh with plucking and picking up

what fell from weight or wind, as I fall

into delirium with each delicious bite.

swb

Photos by Jim Hester, Fall 1990. Both are slides; the second is a phone capture from slide - clumsy technology but a favorite shot.