I wrote this for poetry workshop last week and I actually kind of like it. (This is a new thing for my poetry).

I fictionalized some parts of it (which the participants will recognize!) and obviously time-warped a little. I wanted the end in future tense even though these events happened months ago...

Finger Lakes

I stand inside my pantry in Iowa and
Pull the door shut, my eyes shut and
Smell deeply the wooden box of
Apple cinnamon teabags I bought
From a boy scout in California.

Waiting for the arrival of autumn in the Midwest.
My fingers search for the brown crumbs of
Dead leaves in my hair; red tips fiddle discontentedly with
Farmer’s market apple bushels something
Different about the season here and I miss

Childhood in New Hampshire
Eating the tendrils of apple peel my mother discarded before baking crisp
And serving it with tea and whipped cream after school. And
Pushing the wheelbarrow full of dead needles
Into the woods and making
Leaf angels on my back getting
Sap in my braids.

Next week I’ll go back to New York to see two
Of my friends get married and I will buy them
Kettle corn from the street vendors as a wedding gift and the
Sun will stay over the Finger Lakes for them.
Cayuga Lake is the index, long and pointed and
Golden with autumn.

I can’t think of a better time for a wedding than the same weekend as
Apple Fest, in late September, with
Sugar-sweet maple syrup smells and
Slanting rays of dusty yellow light over the lake and
Sweaters over our party dresses.
Eating apple brown betty with our mouths off paper plates.