The kitchen an autumn sauna,
the kettle top dancing in a festive rattle,
we core, peel, and chop,
mixing the Red Delicious with Braeburns,
the cheeky Pink Ladies with Honey Crisps,
the softies with those of Puritan substance.

There they go, more yellowing chunks,
into the pot with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg,
pecans or almonds, plus a peach or a mango
in various batches for a renegade sweetness.

So juicy this browning mash. And aromatic,
something seductive in the penthouse of the nose.

Soon the Ball Jars will cool this steamy pulp fiction,
their lids going ping all by themselves.

In the winter ahead we will face the testing:
Who among us can swear off the sauce?

This poem first appeared in Blue Unicorn.
Used here with the author's permission.