The trees are bursting with crab apples,
Hard and red and reticent as their namesake,
Thousands for the picking, if one enjoys eating
Sour rocks. The hardscrabble fruits of our
Ancestors: Wild persimmon, rhubarb,
Damson plum—ultra-tart until boiled, stirred,
Sweetened, canned, conjured comestible
With the alchemy of sugar, trophic and treasured.
Still, today, here’s a tree awash in fruit and,
To be sure, nothing will happen; nothing
More than noticing, that is, such outrageous
Abundance, sequestered from subsoil.
No nostalgia, the pantries of my childhood! Golden
Rims gleaming, ruby jams, carmine jellies; now,
The same fruit, round and reliable as Jupiter, is left
Hanging in the southeast sky; so bright, so unavailable.
I love it when I learn an important new word (trophic). Thanks for evoking a treasured past while lamenting our somehow impoverished present in a way which grounds and inspires me. Keep all these amazing words — old and new — coming!
Haha yes, plucked that one from the back of my mind, to alliterate with “treasured”… trying “trophic trophies” would have been too much 🙂
I adore crabapples. I suddenly own a tree that grows apples like crabapples but big as Jonathans. I’m glad someone treasures crabapples as I do, as I no longer ever see them for sale.