Savoring applesauce in a whole new way. |
Applesauce Summers That’s what my Granny called them. Seasons of sweetness, with just a touch of cinnamon. Clothing pared to bare essentials: Oft slept in, or soaked from spur of the moment swims Sun dried and taking on the shape of our bodies- Even when discarded parings on the laundry-room floor. Hot, shriveling hot, days baked us clove brown As nutmeg legs took us all over our mountain. We were adventurers, climbing unnamed peaks In search of blueberries, Or pirates, digging for buried treasure in the garden- Weeding out fool’s gold, finding spear points and brass buttons. Annual midnight canoe trek ‘cross the lake Following the path the full moon left behind in the water Leading us to the island where we’d spin ghosts in the darkness And hide until morning: the three of us in one sleeping bag. Eyes crusted shut with sleep, we’d wash our faces with lake water. Morning currents guided us home to brown-sugar toast Lemonade evenings when Granny would spin our futures From apple peelings. With one long nail she’d pare an apple Start to finish in one unbroken coil of skin: I was born to write, To take her place someday and be a teller of tales, That I would be the traveler, the seeker. Curled in the rocker, Cozy in the night, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. |