Applesauce Summers

Applesauce Summers


That’s what my Granny called them.
Seasons of sweetness, with just a touch of cinnamon.
Clothing pared to bare essentials:
Oft slept in, or soaked from spur of the moment swims
Sun dried and taking on the shape of our bodies-
Even when discarded parings on the laundry-room floor.

Hot, shriveling hot, days baked us clove brown
As nutmeg legs took us all over our mountain.
We were adventurers, climbing unnamed peaks
In search of blueberries,
Or pirates, digging for buried treasure in the garden-
Weeding out fool’s gold, finding spear points and brass buttons.

Annual midnight canoe trek ‘cross the lake
Following the path the full moon left behind in the water
Leading us to the island where we’d spin ghosts in the darkness
And hide until morning: the three of us in one sleeping bag.
Eyes crusted shut with sleep, we’d wash our faces with lake water.
Morning currents guided us home to brown-sugar toast

Lemonade evenings when Granny would spin our futures
From apple peelings. With one long nail she’d pare an apple
Start to finish in one unbroken coil of skin: I was born to write,
To take her place someday and be a teller of tales,
That I would be the traveler, the seeker. Curled in the rocker,
Cozy in the night, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.