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for the perfect apple smell of fresh-picked Macintoshes,
the way the spicy scent of their white flesh instantly transports me home to childhood
for the batches of applesauce that tried my patience to breaking
but later rewarded me oh so sweetly.
for the smell of cinnamon that clung to my clothes with a whiff of nutmeg,
reminding me when minds were clearer how good it is
to pick an apple from a tree in an orchard by the lakes
and to boil it to frothy pulp,
to watch the fruit of your own womb work it in the mill,
her brow knit with concentration and her blond hair stuck to her head
by the steam of the next batch bubbling on the stove,
to remember that labors of love are never wasted
and that sticky apple-juice stained floors are the stuff of hopes and dreams.
for the first hot apple pie of the season, fresh from the oven
for the super-secret family pie crust recipe that I learned from my grandmother who never wrote down a recipe but welcomed me to learn at her elbow. I watched her carefully, making her version of heirlooms from scratch, and this is my priceless inheritance.
for jewel-toned jars lined up atop the kitchen cabinets
for a quaint little kitchen that is cramped and crammed with love and care
for the blessing of a home that enables me to dream and requires me to get creative
for the precious souls that I raise in these walls,
for the soulmate who daily walks beside me
and wakes beside me
and at night, folds me in his arms and whispers prayers into my hair.
for souls yet to be, who are as yet only dreams
for a God who dreamed Creation
and created dreamers