Thank you! I love how the power of tradition and stewardship came through to you without having to announce the themes directly. Thank you for this shared space to enjoy beauty and community together. So grateful for your voice and leadership, Kassi.
Thank you, Dave! They were the best apples: so tart and crisp! This was such a fun poem to write. It made me think about all the work we had to do as kids to keep up with our orchard and garden, and how little I enjoyed it at the time. I certainly never said, “Thanks for making us take turns mowing for hours, Dad.” But looking back, I’m so grateful we got to have that life.
Winesaps are my favorite apple variety. So happy they have a place in your childhood and your poem. I recently visited a farmer's market nearby that used to carry Winesap apples and when I asked if they still did, the seller shook his head and said that very few farms grew them anymore. "Most farmers are ripping out their trees to put in newer, more popular varieties. Winesaps just don't sell anymore."
Insert all the lamentations about a modern capitalistic culture here.
Your poem highlights the value of these things that go beyond dollars.
You are such a kindred spirit, Esther! I’m not surprised at all that we love the same apple varieties. I haven’t had a Winesap in years. When my parents moved away from our childhood home, we lost access to the many apples we grew up feasting on. I always look hopefully at farmer’s markets and orchards but am generally downcast by a profusion of Galas and a bewildering number of “Delicious” varieties that are anything but. My friends tease me that I am an apple snob, but when you grow up eating apples perfumed with honey and so tart your mouth puckers, it is impossible to enjoy a mealy excuse that ripened on a truck. We need to stop moving around so we can plant apple trees in earnest and enjoy the literal fruit of our labor. Thank you for reading and leaving such a thoughtful comment, friend.
I can imagine walking the spaces between the trees. I can smell the clover and alfalfa. It's good to know the deeper story behind the food we eat. How beautiful that this was part of your childhood and now it stands in poem form.
Thank you, friend. I love that the clover and alfalfa linger with you. Their sweet scent mingles with all my summer memories of sunshine. Watching apples begin as flowers and transform hrough the summer into fruit was like magic. I never got tired of it. I bet it is why I still make so much apple crisp! 🥰
It really does. Every time we drove out to my grandparents house in warm weather, I could smell the sweet crops. The heat intensified it. I had to have the windows rolled down so I could take it all in.
It makes sense. Not only is it delicious, it's connection. The older I get the more important these connections to childhood become.
What a delightful poem to wake up to!! I certainly did not expect where you began, but it turned out to be the perfect place. ❤️ Thank you for sharing your beautiful heart in this!!
Thank you, Rachel. I was thinking about slow food when I wrote this and the unhurried rhythms of grace that feed us from the inside out. Your comment is such an emcouragement!💚
I love how the “recipe” begins long before the oven — with saplings, shovels, bees, glacier-fed soil. It turns apple crisp into memory, stewardship, and song. The list of apple varieties reads like liturgy, each name carrying wind and clover and childhood. And that line — “Those trees’ lives were in our hands” — quietly holds the weight of care across seasons. It feels like a poem about cultivation as love, about sweetness that comes from years of tending. I’ve been thinking lately about how the things we savor are often decades in the making — roots first, fruit later. If that resonates, I’ve been writing into that theme here: https://theeternalnowmm.substack.com/p/the-surrender?r=71z4jh
Thank you so much for this thoughtful comment! This poem was an absolute joy to write as I remembered the way our apple orchard marked each of the seasons so distinctly. I think about it every time I make apple crisp. 🥰
Abigail, what a lovely poem that is steeped in tradition and stewardship. Thank you for sharing with us today.
It’s a reminder for me to hold onto the good.
Thank you! I love how the power of tradition and stewardship came through to you without having to announce the themes directly. Thank you for this shared space to enjoy beauty and community together. So grateful for your voice and leadership, Kassi.
🙏🏻 thank you
Oh! Now I want an apple...
But not just any apple! I want an apple from your childhood... glacier watered.
Sigh
Dave :)
Thank you, Dave! They were the best apples: so tart and crisp! This was such a fun poem to write. It made me think about all the work we had to do as kids to keep up with our orchard and garden, and how little I enjoyed it at the time. I certainly never said, “Thanks for making us take turns mowing for hours, Dad.” But looking back, I’m so grateful we got to have that life.
So fun!!!
"Delight" seems to be the best word to sum up this poem. Its content, its execution, and my reaction as a reader. All delight.
Thank you, friend! It was such a delight to write, too. Your kind words bless me💚
Lovely.
Winesaps are my favorite apple variety. So happy they have a place in your childhood and your poem. I recently visited a farmer's market nearby that used to carry Winesap apples and when I asked if they still did, the seller shook his head and said that very few farms grew them anymore. "Most farmers are ripping out their trees to put in newer, more popular varieties. Winesaps just don't sell anymore."
Insert all the lamentations about a modern capitalistic culture here.
Your poem highlights the value of these things that go beyond dollars.
You are such a kindred spirit, Esther! I’m not surprised at all that we love the same apple varieties. I haven’t had a Winesap in years. When my parents moved away from our childhood home, we lost access to the many apples we grew up feasting on. I always look hopefully at farmer’s markets and orchards but am generally downcast by a profusion of Galas and a bewildering number of “Delicious” varieties that are anything but. My friends tease me that I am an apple snob, but when you grow up eating apples perfumed with honey and so tart your mouth puckers, it is impossible to enjoy a mealy excuse that ripened on a truck. We need to stop moving around so we can plant apple trees in earnest and enjoy the literal fruit of our labor. Thank you for reading and leaving such a thoughtful comment, friend.
Yes indeed!
Very Wendell Berry! I loved it. So rooted, in both the land and the people in it🤍
Thank you for reading so generously, Rosa! Getting compared to Wendell Berry made my day, friend.
I love how you start with the finished product, but then go back to the very beginning of how it all began.
"To make my mother’s apple crisp,
begin by planting trees like my father did:"
Thank you, Bethany! I love hearing what stands out to you.
Oh, this is rich. Very lovely.
Thank you, Zane!
I can imagine walking the spaces between the trees. I can smell the clover and alfalfa. It's good to know the deeper story behind the food we eat. How beautiful that this was part of your childhood and now it stands in poem form.
Thank you, friend. I love that the clover and alfalfa linger with you. Their sweet scent mingles with all my summer memories of sunshine. Watching apples begin as flowers and transform hrough the summer into fruit was like magic. I never got tired of it. I bet it is why I still make so much apple crisp! 🥰
It really does. Every time we drove out to my grandparents house in warm weather, I could smell the sweet crops. The heat intensified it. I had to have the windows rolled down so I could take it all in.
It makes sense. Not only is it delicious, it's connection. The older I get the more important these connections to childhood become.
🙏🏻
What a delightful poem to wake up to!! I certainly did not expect where you began, but it turned out to be the perfect place. ❤️ Thank you for sharing your beautiful heart in this!!
Thank you, Rachel. I was thinking about slow food when I wrote this and the unhurried rhythms of grace that feed us from the inside out. Your comment is such an emcouragement!💚
💯🙏🏻
I love how the “recipe” begins long before the oven — with saplings, shovels, bees, glacier-fed soil. It turns apple crisp into memory, stewardship, and song. The list of apple varieties reads like liturgy, each name carrying wind and clover and childhood. And that line — “Those trees’ lives were in our hands” — quietly holds the weight of care across seasons. It feels like a poem about cultivation as love, about sweetness that comes from years of tending. I’ve been thinking lately about how the things we savor are often decades in the making — roots first, fruit later. If that resonates, I’ve been writing into that theme here: https://theeternalnowmm.substack.com/p/the-surrender?r=71z4jh
Thank you so much for this thoughtful comment! This poem was an absolute joy to write as I remembered the way our apple orchard marked each of the seasons so distinctly. I think about it every time I make apple crisp. 🥰
Thank you for sharing your thoughtful insights!