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.
Photos by Jim Hester, Fall 1990. Both are slides; the second is a phone capture from slide - clumsy technology but a favorite shot.
cedar bridge pond – jhester
autumn grasses – sbartlett
seeking the ball – sbartlett
red grasses – jhester
autumn leaves – sbartlett
pink leaves of fall – jhester
Twice a year we go through this matter of daylight savings time change. Confusing enough to move through the seasons and keep the old biological clock ticking onward. Although it goes against the grain (I being indelibly and unshakably bound to nature’s seasons), perhaps the way for a staunch New Englander to be saved by daylight is to wake each morning to a dawn simulator. Seriously. I’m considering looking into it.
Because moving to California is not an option. Yes, I need the sunlight. I also need the seasons, the brisk snappy chill on winter cheeks that eventually drives me indoors to hot cocoa and a bone-warming fire. The first hint of spring emerging through sweet-scented dirt, the joy of visiting old friends and finding new volunteers in the garden. The lazy summer days that suggest sand, waves and a refreshing evening breeze. The raucous blaze of a lingering autumn in its multiple shades from coral to burnt umber.
Yes, I am saved by daylight, daily.
I need light
follow light, am
nurtured by light;
cat like, move
into each patch
as it shifts
through the day,
anticipate each spot
claimed a moment
to lift spirit,
set it free.
My poem, “Stella O’Oro,” is in this issue.
“Each contributor delves into horticultural ecstasy as they wander the forest in the soft rain, beholding arboreal splendor and hearing bird calls above. An old cynic may smirk at all this but eventually it seduces him. There is something in immersing oneself in nature’s realm that lowers the blood pressure and convinces one that there is a higher immanence in our lives…Each poet of the 76 included vibrates in the same harmonic. They have their individual styles but all fall into this mystic congruence… The Aurorean brings to mind the scent of the forests of the Northeast, their quiet beauties, the poetry of nature itself. A good thing to specialize in and a very rewarding publication.”
– Arnold Skemer, Editor/Publisher Phrygian Press, for Small Press Review