When We Were Free
Next day's wake-up time
didn't dictate when I left.
The hard, metal chair didn't
cause my rump to go numb.
The ceramic pot of steaming, green tea
didn't run out of water.
Our conversation grew into a phoenix of
cardamom and clove and questions.
Red delicious apples regained the
sweetness that I remembered as
a boy in my Bellevue basement,
digging both hands into the
bushel that my father brought back from
Wenatchee.
Sunday became Saturday;
Saturday became Friday.
Apple season was upon us again.
- September 2014
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