I can’t reveal my summer time-apple farm memories.
Oh yes, I have them.
I keep them tucked away for winter when I am bound
in fits of freeway madness, and when I am reasonably
sure that the race to be a human is getting no easier.
Recipes settled into old-shelf cook books
tell me what to add to the strong memories when I’m hungry,
but I would like to add nothing to them.
I would like grandmother to swing the wild ideas
of an Oregon pioneer life loosely around a
patterned apron, heave a cobbler onto the cool
ice-cream grass that melts down the
long side of a lazy trout stream, pick up
this little boy who knows nothing of manhood
and wants to float over the sharp rocks
in the shallows of the stream.
This is where all my life has finally caught up
with me and has informed me of my memory
errors because so much of the hard living replaced
what was true–true and tasty and good and
filled with eternal summer.