THE FAMILY

APPLESAUCE


I wasn't there when the apple blossoms sighed open
Painting the April air with the smell of spring
I wasn't there when they fell like feathers
Delicate and pale brushing the fresh wet grass
I didn't see the tiny buds forming
Knotting, pushing, finally bursting green
Or the small sour apples
Hanging wooden through the blush of June
Waiting...
I wasn't there when they sucked the sun of summer
And bloomed it into sweetness
When they bathed their tight skins
Bright in the splash of a summer shower
Or dreamed still through the rich velvet nights
I wasn't there when October crisped them crimson
And loving hands took them carefully down
When the old house was filled sharp and sweet
With the smell of their surrender
When the cores were removed and the firm flesh began to flow
I wasn't there

Yet I can sit here now
Far away
Holding a yellow bottle of yesterday
A circle of seasons sealed with a lid
A jar full of love
Memories under glass
I dip in my spoon...
And take a taste of home


©Edwina Peterson Cross