Apple season is upon us here in the northwest tip of the United States....
“We are missing pie.”
-- my son, Reilly
Overnight they rest in a silver bowl,
uncut, unblemished. No jag-edged cores.
No cobbler. No curling peel
spilling from the sink. Nothing saucy.
From your long-dead father’s
wind-split tree, recumbent for a season
yet flush with this
surprise of fruit --
Sorrow is the absence of pie,
the dank work of worms, sorry dirge.
Love is the ample curve,
the rosy wholeness of an apple-in-hand.
--for Karen England
© T. Clear
Last week I received this note from my friend and virtuoso Cajun-fiddle player Karen England:
....do you remember the poem you wrote about Rollo's apple tree?
It is still an amazing tree! I have real full sized beautiful apples this year!
I learned how to thin and prune and am so happy with the outcome.
Thanks, Karen, for the prompt for this week's poem!
When I wrote it, there was the repeating mantra ("we are missing pie") in my head -- odd because we've always been a pie family, and for some reason too much time had passed between pies, and my son was experiencing the rare event of pie-mourning. Then Karen showed up at my door with a bag of the season's earliest apples -- yellow transparents, or "pie apples", as I've always said -- and not only did I end up with a pie, but also a poem. Happy son, happy mom, happy poet! Happy fiddle player!
Here's Karen doing her fiddle-thang (shown here with Al Berard):
And here with the band Folichon: