So much on the list to do
but the apples keep calling
a bumper crop from our own little tree
shiny red and sour
no worms or bruises
Use us they keep whispering
don’t treat us like you did the basil
waiting past prime
and so in spite of other weighty tasks
I begin to cut and simmer
and turn the old neglected mill
It’s apple butter I want
a taste from childhood
more special than sauce
 
As I sieve off seeds and skin
I remember long ago jam making days
fifty pots of blackberries
from beloved English hedgerows
picked as a family
all of us purple lipped
Once as I stirred the giant pot
my five year old
bounced in with a question
Mommy, what is God really and heaven?
I just kept stirring
buying time to reply
She looked so serious
then suddenly reflected with a grin
I guess it’s one of those mysteries
Before I could catch my breath
she bounded from the kitchen
back to whatever she was playing
when God popped in
 
Stirring the apple butter now
that question goes round and round
sweet mystery
and sustenance for another day


© by Signe Eklund Schaefer.
Used with the author’s permission.