After Apple Picking
by Philip Byrne
Beneath the fluorescent-lit canopy
we picked from the harvest of Gala,
Cortland, Empire, Rome, & Fuji.
Ma said, “Braeburns are the best for apple
tarts.” On tippy-toes, I pried shiny
ones loose from the heap, careful
not to drop & bruise their skins. After
sticky-finger rubbing of a stick of butter
into two cups of flour, unbleached; sugar,
two tablespoons; pinch of salt, a beaten
egg, drops of cold water; to the shape
of the dinner plate, the pastry’s roller-pinned.
Too young to chip the apples, I watched her nip
& tuck the tart wedges beneath the doughy
raw cover, place it in the oven at 400 degrees.
The oven’s warm still. Beyond reach, through
the windowpane, in the doughy clouds, an apple-
green moon bobbles. My boys squabble
over the last piece of tart.
we picked from the harvest of Gala,
Cortland, Empire, Rome, & Fuji.
Ma said, “Braeburns are the best for apple
tarts.” On tippy-toes, I pried shiny
ones loose from the heap, careful
not to drop & bruise their skins. After
sticky-finger rubbing of a stick of butter
into two cups of flour, unbleached; sugar,
two tablespoons; pinch of salt, a beaten
egg, drops of cold water; to the shape
of the dinner plate, the pastry’s roller-pinned.
Too young to chip the apples, I watched her nip
& tuck the tart wedges beneath the doughy
raw cover, place it in the oven at 400 degrees.
The oven’s warm still. Beyond reach, through
the windowpane, in the doughy clouds, an apple-
green moon bobbles. My boys squabble
over the last piece of tart.
Philip Byrne is a Dublin-born retired teacher living in Westchester, New York pursuing his dream of letting life catch up to him and attempting to capture those moments of memory and observation in his poetry.