Gathering Apples

by Lance Larsen

Holding to the last shreds of sleep

I hugged the top mast and searched for whales,

while diving seagulls, white wedges of light,

rocked the air. Then the snap of wet sails

gave way to the ring of my mother’s voice

and I awoke. My room was gray,

the open window breathing September mist,

and my blue oceaned dreams lay

irretrievable behind my eyes.

Above me, in the kitchen, I could hear

stockinged feet sliding on wood,

the whistle of steam, the scrape of a chair.

I found Mother at the sink peeling

apples, the thin skin of a Jonathan

sliding away from the blade

in a sliver as red as morning sun.

“I need more apples,” Mother said,

pushing back her hair and laying

the peeled globe in a bowl. Barefoot,

I went out the back, across the porch, hurrying

into the mist. The orchard stood

to the east of the house: two Golden

Delicious trees, a gnarled Roman,

a stunted Winesap, and the Jonathan

whose longest branches brushed kitchen glass

when the wind blew. I climbed until

my ninety-three pounds nearly buckled

young branches. Far below, the window sill

held daisies spotted gold with kitchen light.

Everything else was mist—the hills

were distant swells, the barn a floating crag,

the crows winging from the windmill’s

tower were like gulls lifting from a sail.

And in the north field, I saw a school

of sea lambs floating through haze,

heads erect, their ghost faces a warm pool

of white. I hugged the tree-mast tighter

against the breeze, while my mother,

shimmery through glass, like a misty

figure head, pointed to an unseen shore.

Photo by Cheri A. Brooks

Photo by Lisa Metcalf

Illustrated by Chris Diener

Photo by Andy Zmolek

Illustrated by Rachel Adams

Photo by Andy Zmolek