Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Apple Pie, Late Harvest

She jumbled a measure of
Flour, a measure of
Water, a measure of
Salt, cutting
Lard into the mix;
Patiently pushing, fighting
Stickiness to create the
Base, the start.
Apples, cooked and sitting
Warm in brown sugar and
Cinnamon and spices,
Waited to the side.

Holding the bowl-shaped
Ceramic, only lightly
Pressing and
Pushing now,
She walked to the yard,
Ending where the
Fields began,
The fields of tall, brown now,
Scratchy noises in the wind,
The fields waiting patiently for
The combine to exhale
And move on.

Massaging the dough with
Her fingers,
She watched
Red-bronzed farmer
Move patiently
Through the fields, as
Patiently as the
Fields themselves waited,
Patiently despite the
Coming rain, which
Might snow make
Yet today.

She knew his mind, as
She shaped the floury mix.
She knew his calloused hands,
Young hands already
Hands that had touched
Her skin like
Fire and rain.
She knew his unshaven face,
His sweat-smell,
His worry-smell to
Get the harvest home.

She knew his heart, the heart
That beat next to hers.
She knew the life, the life
The life moving near
Their hearts at night
And hers at day,
Its own heart, born of their oneness,
Waiting for its time, its time to push
And press and fight for life,
For its place, too,
In the fields.

She felt the silky
Smoothness of
The worked dough,
Now ready for apples and
Brown sugar and
Cinnamon spices.


Anonymous said...

as i was reading this, i forgot that i was reading. it felt like i became part of it.

travelmom said...

This truly was a delight to read Glynn. I loved the imagery between the dough and the fields - that which provides for the dough - it really was lovely.

A reading treat!
Thank you,

Maureen said...

This is a delightful poem, Glynn. The apple pie: I can see it being made, smell it cooking, imagine the eating of it.

Kneading the dough, working the fields: division of labor captured so well.

The visual image of the farmer is very strong, as is the picture of hands mixing, kneading, rolling out the dough.

Very nice indeed. I didn't want to find myself at the end.

I'd like to suggest you submit this to Ted Kooser's American Life in Poetry. I have a link on my site.

S. Etole said...

This is my grandparents so many years ago ...

Anonymous said...

Very nice! Great visual images combined with an emotional pull. I especially loved "...scratchy noises in the wind." That is fantastic.

Glynn said...

Thanks to each of you for taking the time to read the poem. It's strange how these things come out -- I started with the scene with the dough, and suddenly she's moving outside and it's him, then the child emerged, and then back to the dough. But I will say it was inspired by a blog I visit often -- Ann Voskamp's Holy Experience.

Thanks again for the comments. One of the best parts of poetry is to see how words and images and ideas touch people.

Anonymous said...

Beautiful! Janet

~*Michelle*~ said...

Like Nancy said.....I found myself as a guest in this farm house, anticipating great stories to be told over a mug of coffee and a piece of that apple pie.

Marcus Goodyear said...

I like this:

His worry-smell to
Get the harvest home.

I also like apple pie.

Ann Voskamp @Holy Experience said...

Tore the heart out of me, Glyn...
Heart-achingly beautiful poetry.

Powerfully evocative images -- the combine to exhale. Oh my -- that is *precisely* the apt description.

And rain that might turn to snow -- that is exact the mind of a farmer.

Simply put...

This is exquisite.

I'd like a whole book of words like these, kind sir. Please.

Wide-eyed and breathless...