24 April 2012


Today I baked an apple cake
three apples firm, not bruised.
New crop apples,
you would have said,
best for eating out-of-hand
but all I had in stock

It is the dice of apples
that makes the cake;
too small and applesauce,
too large and teeth break.
You supervise even now
your admonishments louder
than the radio’s bray.

Flour sifts, ghost veils
brown sugar churns
with butter, nuts cracked
chopped for adding later.
For crunch, you said,
bones of the cake.
Collected, the cake settles
into its greased glass pan,
baked until the apples soften.

Baking apple cake reminds me
of mountain afternoons
walking through sweet hay
fields to orchards, fallow
now, and frost-bitten,
wizened apples hung
still in cider-spiked air.
We carted our rare prizes
in brown burlap, bundled
in your lap, by your feet.
The truck bounced down
the rocky hillside, you laughed.

Later, with apple ache
rounding our bellies
I cut into the cake
still warm, vanilla ice cream
puddled on our plates.

Prompt=love poem. Peace...

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