Cider Season

© Joan Z. Rough

Once upon a time when I was younger and my kids were very small, we’d spend sunny afternoons picking apples in our own ancient orchard.   I’d cut the good ones into big chunks and place them in the barrel of our cider press.  The result was a sweet and tangy quaff meant for the Gods.  I’d bottle it up in quart containers and with a sign in our driveway, invite those who were interested in buying this seasonal treat to our door.  It sold well.

Those were simpler days.  In today’s world, I long for those quieter times when I took great comfort in everyday gifts, like the making of cider.

Cider Season

The last of the crop dislodged                                                                                                            I gather windfalls firm and rimy                                                                                                       Rake the bruised into piles                                                                                                                 Where pincered earwigs crowd                                                                                                       Droning yellow jackets sample the brew

My children pretend not to hear                                                                                                When I ask for their help  prefer                                                                                                    The rustle of leaves  tumbling                                                                                                          And diving  scattering yesterday’s work

With sharpened knife I quarter                                                                                              Blushing rounds  pack the barrel                                                                                                      To overflowing  lower the plate                                                                                                        ‘Til it resists  pressing sweet amber liquid                                                                            Buckets of gold

I’m drunk on October apples                                                                                                      Swishing mare’s tails                                                                                                                      Against a blue field of sky                                                                                                                Wood smoke greeting the cold                                                                                                      A threat of snow by morning


This entry was posted in family, Life, Poetry, stories, The Seasons, Vermont. Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Cider Season

  1. jzrart says:

    Thanks Thomas for visiting my blog and liking my post. You’ve got a great blog going!!

  2. mythgal says:

    LOVE the photo here – stunning.

  3. Zed Zabski says:

    Masterful … or could the post modern word be ….
    “Mastressfull” ! Either way, Divinely Inspired.

    I’m reminded of our last fun day with Reid; gathered round a long wide feasting table with family arrived from every direction. There was song, ambrosia from the press and cheerful goings on for our all being together.

    • jzrart says:

      Thanks, Zed! That was the last Thanksgiving we all spent together and the day we buried mom. It was so cold and blustery and the cider pressed that afternoon in Lee’s big room was wonderful!

  4. Brenda Neil says:

    I can smell it now…….

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