ISRAEL

massr@israsrv.net.il

I want to pick the apples from the tree behind my daughter’s house,

make apple sauce, at least gather the fallen for salad.

I watch them roll into the grass, bird-pocked like grieving pomegranates.

They’re not worth the trouble, my daughter says.

Leaves shingle the grass with crusty shapes.

I slide over, paddle along.

The swooshing hugs my shoes as I think of apple pies, clear jelly.

At her cafe, my daughter bakes cornmeal muffins

with rosemary and red pepper to be served with vegetable chili.

By mid-morning she’s made apple tarts, but from apples

the grocer sends me she says mine are not good quality.

That afternoon I go with my father to 8^th Avenue, where we lived

when I was a child. I look for the tree that spread over most of the yard.

The apples were a bit sour, I remember, green with a red slash on the side.

The yard looked too large; the tree wasn’t there.

Another was in the very same place, a sapling

with wrinkled, pleated fruit. They’re plums, I see, when I come close.

Hadn’t been picked, hanging heavy from each limb.

Things have changed, said my father. The back porch has a place to sit now.

The front steps seem wider I add as we turn to the car.

Want to talk about the tree but my father has already shut the door.

The radio is blaring.

I remembered the tree as clearly as the shape of my father's back

as he shoveled coal into the furnace by the basement window

while mother dug in the earth, pulled out lettuce for dinner.

I’m trying to hold onto something of that home, that time.

But I need to keep those memories under control, loosen their grip.

I’m straining to let go, yet afraid that if I do

there’ll be nothing left of me.

My house sounds honest this morning, from corner to corner

in a way I don’t remember. I put on my bra so I can concentrate

on what’s happening, pull my senses into stricter form. Don’t want

to be sloppy.

The house is packed with quiet. It purrs round me. I feel thrust into it.

The place is crowded with pleasant feelings that could easily turn

into thought. The feelings are muscled now, explode - get stern, but

leave no irritation.

Often the sense of things gets obliterated, but today I feel as though

nothing can touch me and yet I know that anything can. I watch the

horizon move in, follow the line that spins comfort round me.

It adds patience, helps me listen. I hear questions moving in my chest.

I have all of this to myself. I lift the mood, prop and align it to get

to the center. I want to feed it, add logs as if I’m building a fire

to warm winter which is months away. There are no sounds, only a fan

quieter than grinding coffee, but constant.

The grocery list on my table tells me that lunch must be prepared, dinner

Served, but I feel like a fisherman today - re-casting, watching the arc lurch.

What satisfies a man waiting for fish: the quantity? the weather?

It’s a soft day here. I’m waiting for it to cool - but that won’t be till evening.

Surviving summer is like any other recovery, like being in love:

what’s to come has never been before. These days wear thin, lose

the strokes of sun. I wonder if wisdom will come in damp autumn mornings

replacing the passion of summer.

The sweat of summer has been wiped away,

winter has come to rescue, yet seems to assault.

Shirts have sleeves now, the bed was layered first

with a shawl, now the quilt.

I think of soup-making since the air has thinned,

lost the texture of honey. I fill these cooler days

as if I’m doing it for the first time.

Late afternoon the day falls before I turn on the lights.

I wonder how much of summer will stay through winter

as I move sandals aside, bring woolen things down.

I know I have to let the heat drop away like torn paper

scatter like coins.

The burn of summer makes a slow exit

as the cooler air sucks in. Greens in my garden return,

stretch after the first thick rain.

This morning I felt a gentle, clean wind from the Gilboa,

but soon it will smack my window.

I unfold a new sweater, put it over my shoulders

remember how I used to save clothes for a special time.

When I was eight I saved my winter coat,

didn’t wear it till I was ten, then

couldn’t button it at all.

Now I know that things happen

when they happen

like the pling-plank of popping corn.

At the beginning of summer we went north for raspberries,

came home with fists of cherries.

Days darken early now.

I grope my way in the thick black of sudden evening.

No spaces at all - till I tip the switch.

A different light dominates the space.

My knees stiffen as the heat drops off,

even feel it in my hands.

The first rain fell last week thick and - amusing –

a friend said.

I want to give this change no more attention

than it deserves

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