Apple Memories
by Carolyn Wolfe
In my neighborhood
As Fall approaches
With its tapestry of leaves
Blurring the clean fault lines of the sidewalk
As if covering the cracks to protect the unwary
From turning a heel, or losing their footing
Leaves are friendly that way,
But I digress
In my neighborhood
There are no apple trees
No apple factories
No apple butter heroes
That would take on the herculean task
Of making that rich spread
That tickles the tongue in excellence
So, again
No apple trees.
Yet, in the early season of this most fragile time
I always catch the scent
Of the winey, tangy, have to breathe in, smell
Of apples.
And I am transported to my childhood neighborhood
Where the sidewalks were all lined with crabapples
as far as the eyes can see
Envisioning the juicy balls of tiny apples
Hanging like Christmas ornaments from the branches
And know that my past has reached me here
Standing in the shadows
Of Apple memories.
Bio: Carolyn Wolfe is a Free-lance writer, poet and author of twelve books that include five illustrated children's books, three original poetry collections, two novelettes, as well as two original collections of short stories. Writing is her passion and that includes both works of fiction and also non-fiction essays, blogs and articles. She is currently living in the Shenandoah Valley with her many animal companions.
about.me/carolyn.wolfe
After the Shower
by Edgar Ramirez
I continue to sweat long after
the cold shower rinses my body
of layers of grime and salt.
A walk around the air-conditioned
house in my skin’s full glory
can do nothing to stop it.
This is the real reason
I started biking again—
not because heavy years
resulted in weight gain,
or I needed a new hobby,
but to teach my heart
to work hard again,
to teach my body
the art of letting go.
Two autumns ago,
I was alone in Tennessee
on the Harahan Bridge.
When the rain came
and brought me clarity,
I came down and rented
a bike instead, though I
had not ridden in years.
The point is my body never let go
of how to ride—it just came back
like everything else that returns.
Like how I recall riding
from the Arkansas side
back towards Memphis,
and the fawn that came
out of the greenwood
to gallop apace with me
from fifty yards away.
That then now
crosses my mind.
This month, I have biked 100 miles,
sweating it out in arid wind, sultry heat,
and beating rain—an effort to purge
myself of the thing I no longer want
that always returns.
Bio: Edgar Ramirez is a Mexican American poet and high school English teacher based in Illinois. His work explores cultural and emotional inheritance, memory, and survival, often with coffee nearby, a guitar within reach, and a deep belief in the healing power of a good line break.
