In Teresa’s Orchard
Only two trees remain in the old apple orchard
but buckets & sieves, a press, wooden pestle
mashers, evidence of bygone industry nearby
You cannot imagine your Victorian
Grandmother would have tolerated much hooch
for the household. But maybe. Who knows?
Winesaps, pippins, northern spy, the trees
Were there before the people moved in
Legend claims John Chapman came through
Lord, being good to him, and the sun
And the rain n’ all, and so left a patch
That yielded small, tart, “spitters”,
Their tight, knobby yellow-green skins
all pockmarked, their puckering tartness hollers
for sugar, Cinnamon, palate-pleasing piecrust.
Unless of course, you’re nine and sweaty,
Swatting bees up the tree stretching
for the one that hasn’t fallen
One without blemish, still holding
On before frost or farmer’s wife
comes with her basket and broom
Before you learn the clean feel of the
paring knife peel, the smell of clear juice
on a board, the sound of a sharp cut
Before the last summer-kitchen canning
stewing, stirring straining, baking days
have passed into ancient history
It’s just a firm warm fruit
In your small hot hand
A crunch and a pucker
Survival snack and bellyache-
Promise for a late afternoon nap
In the buzz and shade.
Early Morning Poems 