I stand beside my mother & her tree, picker in hand,
——–—extending the rod, aiming for an apple

in apparent ecstasy, fullness aflame,
——–—aquiver in the favonian breeze,

brilliant as the seed that gave it birth
——–—when its need in the soil first cast

a vision for this grandeur: autumn day brandishing
——–—sapphire sky, air wearing nothing

but the sweet perfume of its fruit.
——–—It knew how to blossom, how to draw honey

bees, then later, us.
——–—My mom, a widow now, her silver hair

shimmering in sunlight, arthritic knee aching,
——–—an inch shorter than she was sixty years ago

when she married my dad, in raptures over this ripe life,
——–—directs my light traffic buffeted by yellow

jackets fighting me for the food.
——–—Despite the rime that coated its susceptible

lungs in spring & the high September temperatures,
——–—despite the codling moths whose larvae

bore to the pith & pip of some other cores,
——–—this prodigious pome is un-

scathed. So I tug on the stem, which (unlike
——–—my father’s last, extubated breath)

releases its meat with ease.

 

 

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Julie L. Moore is the author of four poetry collections, including Full Worm Moon (Poiema), which won a 2018 Woodrow Hall Top Shelf Award and received honorable mention for the Conference on Christianity and Literature’s 2018 Book of the Year Award. www.julielmoore.com

 

 

 

Photo by Gabrielle Hensch on Unsplash