apple picking the first week of october
is tradition, that hard cider scent
warmed by sun just enough
to lure bees to buzz drunk above orchard grass. we pick
buckets full of mcintosh, still hard on the tree, but blushing
to baking softness in a week, sweet but with a tart
that draws mouths into smiles involuntarily.
the first year i pulled my son behind me
in a wagon with the apples, he held each one like a gift.
later, peeling them, each he held had two tiny tooth marks
like vampire kisses just breaking the skin.
he teethed on apples, evidence I removed
with a paring knife and a smile.
fall apples: heady and smelling already of pies
and cinnamon, sauce and the potpourri drift of spiced rings
in the dehydrator, the last fruit we harvest before november
sinks its teeth in, and those teeth bite deeper
than apple skin.
***at Dverse today, we are writing about fall foods. You know I had to choose apples.