apples | sarahscapes

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.

credit – fineartamerica

credit – wilkinsfarm

the Aurorean has once again accepted one of my poems for publication, this one to appear in the Fall/Winter 2018 issue. Recently, a friend of mine asked why I don’t post my poems here. Why not, indeed? The simple answer is: you never know when you might want to seek publication. For many journals, a blog posting constitutes publication which would make it off-limits for them.

But AFTER something has been accepted? Well, why not? Please enjoy the following two-part poem which is near and dear to my heart on so many levels. I’d love to hear what you have to say after reading it. Where do you feel it? Does it transport you to your own memories of apples in one form or another?

Fruit Tasting of Earth and Song

I.
The first apple I truly tasted was a marvelous
late-season Macoun from Hans’ orchards, his trees
loved into abundance with old-world wisdom
and song. Oh, he tended the earth

reverent in support of its best instincts, vigilant
against pest and pestilence, inviting us in to weep for joy
at the first crisp crunch of each perfect fruit, its juice dribbling
down my chin after exploding onto my child’s cheek,

each precious drop a tang of dirt and time, seasoned
patience and the humility of a master, his works of art
coaxed from the land by his patient hand with weathered grace
of age and timing, feeding our greed with gratitude.

II.
When I hear ‘apple’ my thoughts bypass the tart pleasure
of the first fall bite through taut red skin to the smooth firm flesh
within, its juicy tang squeezing my cheeks

bypass the smooth deep rose of applesauce hand-turned and divided
into flat pints frozen against dark days’ yearning for fresh fall pairings

bypass even the requisite dumplings, coffeecakes and pies of all kinds
that bake away those first fall days. No, my thoughts turn to long

blossom-laden boughs of spring, my Dad cheerily filling my childhood home
with armloads of pink and white sweetness, their intoxicating promise

of a few short days and several long months the open-and-close
of a full season bookended by the twin joys of this single tree. After all
these decades, I cannot say which feeds me more – blossom, or fruit.