You, sitting on my kitchen chair, chipping apples
into a bowl in your lap, my garden pail at your feet.
Your hands, in a familiar circuit of movement,
do not stop as you inquire of me, as though
a stranger, ‘Do you KNOW how many apples there are?’

I would paint this image in oils on rough canvas, Chagall-like ~
you, wearing my yellow apron, drifting in your chair skyward;
the pail tilting sideways, the spiral of peel draping from your knife.
In your lap, the bowl overflowing with apples; your hair blown
across your brow; the breeze coming in the open door. Light
shining into the room as though to say, in any language, September.

*a good word to describe both apples and old friends


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author’s permission.