The sweet and sour of the yeast comes first
Then the sound of the crack
as your hardened skin breaks
in my hand. I partake,
surround myself in memories of warm laughter and sticky dough in a ceramic bowl in grandma’s kitchen–6,000 feet above sea level
slice some butter and spread it inside you, take a bite and savor
till the bite melts away…
I cup my hands to my mouth, hold my breath, and try to keep the memories from fading.
I remember when we planted you:
one small twig in an ocean of sand. You bloomed
where you were planted and stretched your arms into the sky, your feet into the sand. You left me
white flowers in spring and sweet fruit in summer. By autumn, you were yellowing but still offering me shade and a safe place to climb. You fill my yard with golden
shreds of yourself; I let them decay and nourish the earth where you left them. Winter settles in and you are stripped bare. I shudder
at the thought that you’re not here. I remind myself you are just sleeping; green life still oozes inside your warm, wrapped branches. I wait,
for spring to waken you and summer to harvest and share you with the world.
But if I’m honest
I’d be just as happy to keep you
all to myself: my special apple secret beneath a yellow moon.