By Karen Mulvahill
Time-gnarled trees, twisted
by each turn of weather. Bent
by winter gales, broken
by spring ice,
an old farmer’s collection:
vintage apples curated
with a native respect for diversity,
a lifelong labor of love.
Some bespeak flavor: Banana,
Pitsmaston Pineapple, Strawberry;
others, origin: Belle de Boskoop,
Arkansas Black. There’s color:
Maiden Blush, Blenheim Orange,
and taste: Sour Puss, Sops in Wine.
Some even boast: Nonpareil
and Seek-No-Further.
Sold in green paper cartons,
stories scrawled on index cards
Jefferson planted Spitzenburg
in the Monticello Fruitery.
Rooted deep enough
to survive seasonal drought
but not bulldozer blithely
pushing trunks onto pyre.
Sweet scent of burning apple
an elegy for the white brides of spring,
summers’ shining red valentines.