Apple

I’ve peeled so many apples now
my hands know the firm roundness of them,
the movement of the blade around them —
a sharp satellite, trailing yellow juice.

I cut from stem to calyx, downwards:
the knife runs cleanly through.
There is a wholesomeness to apples:
the white flesh crisp, fine-grained,
the sweet, sharp scent. The skin.

I’m echoing older, defter hands –
All Hallows spiral; petals sliced
from fine white apple-flesh,
fanned out and sugared,
blanketed in dough or pastry,
motherhood enfleshed, enmeshed;
the shimmering crescents splayed
beside a piece of cheese. I know
you cut along those lines
of longitude, stem down to calyx,

but sometimes, secretly, the witch in me
slices across the apple’s midriff,
just to view the secret star
all apples hold inside them.

Just to remind myself it’s there.

A fruity little number for Kim at dVerse

NaPoWriMo 22 – a Georgic

Pruning the apple

It’s a winter job –

When the soul of the tree

Is curled deep in the roots – 

A slow job, of pauses,

Consideration, judicious.

A job calling for thought, and tea,

Stepping back, thinking twice,

Cutting once. Not a hatchet job,

Not at all. A coaxing and nudging,

Encouraging growth. You must

Think of a goblet, a chalice,

Designed to hold sunlight,

The warmth poured in,

Weaving its magic.

It’s more of an art

Than a science. 

Be patient.