methow grist 2011-2014 archive


Golden Delicious

Apple picked from the tree just to be stored in a brown wooden box
The cold frozen air rushes past it like it’s flying with the
Wright Brothers
 Stopping, just to be put on a conveyer-belt to be processed
Back on the way to Washington on a 18 wheeler
In the store it sits waiting to be picked as a soft hand touches it
Ms. Golden
Put in a bag as it suffocates on the passenger side of her car
Picked up and startled when the cold penetrates
My apple sits. Motionless.
 A bump on a log
It awakes as a blade slices it in half and half again and placed on a tray
My desk welcomes the eighth slice and waits to be eaten
  Simultaneously, the whole class bites and I hear
Crunch, Crack, and Crackly Pops
The taste of the sweet but sour slice flows through my whole body
with enthusiasm and goes crazy for more
The felling of the crisp but not mushy apple is devoured in less than a couple of seconds and rides down my slimy esophagus
My apple is a shiny green and a round sphere
called a golden delicious  




Teacher Dani Golden told the students to look at, feel, and smell the apple, then hear the crunch as everyone class bit into their slice in unison.

“We ate many apple slices and wrote apple poems,” she said.