wassail

In August, but this year in July, Gravensteins:

golden fleshed, generous, kind to cook,

ciderer and ring-dryer. She tries everything,



but mostly butter: a large crockpotful

of peeled rings, quartered, lightly cloved,

cinnamoned and nutmegged will make



six pints and one short jelly jar. After

that, the old Egremont Russet, Cortland,

Honeycrisp and Jonagold come all together;



what can she do but slice them all in quarters,

toss them into her dedicated shredder,

pour pomace into a burlap bag



and hang that, with her father's pulley

and old hemp rope, to a maple branch?

Juice will run for hours, collecting



in a tub beneath; at evening she dips gold,

pouring through filter and funnel into quarts --

forty-five glass jars or more, most years.



Last, she'll think of cider (but not too much),

making in a cool jug by adding wine yeast.

In seven days or less she will sing to trees.

-- shonin #poetry #homesteading #orchard #cider

what to do about trees

What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;

Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she

Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince

Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she

Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Even as those old hens looked on amazed:
Something to offer folks not yet alive.

-- shonin #poetry #gardening #orchard #acrostic #homesteading

decembering in the orchard

All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she
Loves that they cling to their shivered tree,
Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off

Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and
Have retired to their tractor, pecking
At storebought feed in its styrene bin.
The winds whistle through, rasping

Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and
Stub their green bellies. She

Lifts ten or so down, as if they were
Each one of her own breasts, tenderly
Filling her small basket. In the kitchen
They will sit shyly waiting their turn:

It is the season for other foods; in
Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus

Talk among themselves in distant tongues.
Here her hands make outland meals,
Even finding work for lemon skins.

Granny Smiths are not much favored,
Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an
Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed,
Not thinking of that one tree, struggling
Night and day to keep for them fresh joy.
Yet she knows she cannot blame them;

Shy apples do their best in pie.
Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick;
If some green globes remain at large tonight,
The morning light will prove, tomorrow,
Holiday for those that cannot buy.
Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading #gardening #seasons #orchard

RE: https://toot.wales/@richrollgardener/114462734610259237

We spent some time this afternoon setting out some of the Apple Maggot Fly traps, in the hopes that we will actually have some apples this year. Trees are done blossoming and it LOOKS like some fruit is setting. Hoping for better weather during the June drop this year. Fingers crossed. Anyway here's my report from last year at this time.
#BeetBear
#Gardening
#Orchard
#Allotment
#NewEngland
#Zone6b
#Apples