-This poem reflects on the autumn ritual of pressing apples, where the orchard’s gathered fruit becomes cider while the scents, sounds, and small interruptions of the work mark the harvest season.
The apples wait in wooden crates,
their skins are streaked with red and gold,
we pour them through the iron teeth
and hear the grinding wheel begin.
The crushed fruit fills the slatted press,
the screw descends with every turn,
and amber cider threads below,
then gathers in the waiting pail.
A wasp attends the dripping spout,
its narrow wings in slanting sun,
while peels and seeds beneath the cloth
give up the sweetness summer stored.
By dusk, our sleeves are dark with spray,
the orchard cools beyond the shed,
we carry one full jug inside;
one apple rolls beneath the bench.