I saw her work
The coal stove red
Sweat pouring from her face
She wiped her forehead
On her apron
Turning again
To the boiling apples
Apples fresh from the trees
In the field
Up from our house
How their appearance
Has changed
From the morning
A No. 2 washtub
Filled with water
The fruit floating
I reached in
Grabbing a red one
Spinning a knife
Directly under the peel
Ribbons of covering
Extending between my knees
Finally falling
Into a bucket
A dessert for the hogs
I spun the winesap
In my hands
Expertly slicing
Separating the meat
From the core
Filling the pan
Carrying it to Mother
She had put the fruit
In a ball jar
Sealing it
Setting it aside
Dumping the new white slices
In the canning pot
Beginning the process again
How good they would be
In the winter
When fresh fruit
Went with the falling leaves
Fried pies
In the iron skillet
The cans carefully placed
On the shelves
In the closet
Among the quarts
Tomatoes, beans, peas, peaches
Strawberry, peach and plum jellies
A perfect garnish
For a cathead biscuit
On a cold winter morning
