BY PEG ALOI
The Apples
The apples my father brought were large
perfect, juicy, crunchy and sweet
red, delicious
in purple cardboard egg carton boxes
that he bought for clients
his generosity a beacon
amidst our constant struggles to make ends meet.
The apples my mother made pies with were grasshopper green
big and round, super tart, Northern Spy
baked to mushy sweetness
spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg
filling the afternoon with a warm fragrance of love and care
that rose above
the damp lingering sadness and fear of the morning.
The apples we picked in the local orchard
by the horse farm that smelled faintly of manure
and strongly of fresh-cut hay
were burnished by sunshine
red and green and yellow
Macintosh, Golden Delicious, Jonathan, Cortland
tumbled into bushel baskets
riding home in the back of the station wagon
like treasure, like gold
shining autumn days
when we learned what farms were
where food came from
what happiness was made of.
The apples my witchcraft told me of
were shining like round red planets
cosmic throbbing pomes
the color of blood and roses
their plump poisonous seeds bursting
with fairy tales, myths, secrets, curses and wishes
their crisp, fragrant, juicy flesh
tasting of this moment, and of immortality.
Peg Aloi is a freelance writer, film & TV critic, professional gardener, traditional singer, practicing witch, and lover of apples and orchards. Her book The Witching Hour: How Witchcraft Enchanted Popular Culture, will come out in 2021.