Wednesday, November 4, 2009


It was a time of innocence,
That was your gift to me
Your work and sacrifice.

Your applesauce,
You made each summer
From apples you bought
On rambling trips
To orchards in Vermillion
With your sister Eunice
Canned in our kitchen…
It protected me
For a few fine years:
Before the bomb
Before the blast of puberty
It softened the blows.
You kept me safe
For as long as you could…

It is a time more guileful,
And gifts are given and received more cautiously
Though we work and sacrifice and carry on.

My applesauce,
Picked from apple trees
that likely remember when,
And cooked in modern day hot waters
Can do so little
It only opens the door
And lets me look back
And see your apron through the steam.
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