Mike Freeman

Gratitude for Autumn Leaves, Walking Today, in my silence, I can hear late September speaking with New England tongues to my open hands. Gratitude blossoms in colors; green and yellow, early russet and flaming orange. Thanking you again, Divine, Mother and Father of the cycles that root and sustain us,. With each step I move, awed, into my dailiness, soles crunching last season's clothing into the hungry ground. --Melinda Coppola

AOOLE DAYS Don’t groan. There is room for another apple poem. No one is counting how many have been penned, sung, stamped into books and magazines. There is no quota for recipes with or without the skins, tart and sweet, red and green, that glorify the juicy firm insides, palest yellow around their seeds which radiate like tiny tear shaped chestnuts from mysterious beginnings. Yes, I’ve picked them. Traipsed up and down manicured rows of trees, deceptively stout, prolific. I’ve washed them lovingly, held some in my cupped hands, marveling at their perfection. Some I’ve eaten whole, others sliced, arranged artfully on small white plates to entice my he and my her to partake. I’ve baked my share of crisps and pies, made thick, pruney compote, rendered sweetly honeyed ones into cakes that nod to autumn and Rosh Hashanah. Truth is, after my gall bladder became medical waste— quite needlessly, I now believe— after that my romps with raw pommes de terre were over. For years I could not digest them unless cooked beyond reason, mashed to runny sauce that bore little trace of their glorious beginnings. Then I discovered digestive enzymes which made miracles happen between my gut and the apples. Those grainy, odd tasting chewables arrive, now, in dark jars and by subscription, so my apple days may continue. Perhaps I should poem of them— "An Ode to Cellulase and Amylase, Protease and Papain" Might that bring readers galore, all rushing to chew on my earnest words? --Melinda Coppola