Poem 33: Cider Day

Crispins are mutsus, says the poster.
The tractor pulls us up the hill
to a view of the orchard, with pointed
ladders sticking up from the rows
of trees below. The bees have a great union
says the man who owns the orchard.
The rain came right after the Macs
bloomed. Other varieties fared better.
Some of the Jamaicans in the crew
below us, picking leftover apples
in the Pick-Your-Own block
have been picking here for 34 years.
It snowed here last weekend
more than two feet, but it was light.
Talk in the wagon is of Somerville,
Powderhouse Square, a cafe where
a husband proposed to his now-wife.
Then of cider, gallons fermenting,
bottles in the cellar, they accumulate.
We pick stray apples off of old trees
I am called upon to reach for the higher
ones. My daughter poses with an apple.
Later, at another orchard, we watch
mash being loaded into a brand new press,
juice squeezed out the slits on the sides.
At home, I pitch a 75-cent packet of yeast
into my carboy, hoping for a quicker start.