The house is midcentury modern: shag carpets
and tulip chairs. A commanding central fireplace.
Like all Midwesterners, they love the Wrights
and want to bring the outside in so stone
and wood prevail. Around the light switch
pen drawings tattoo the walls, done by a friend
who came with them from the old country.

Of course, I was not alive for that.
What do I remember that I haven’t been told?

Outside it is apple season. Beneath the trees
we savor cider and donuts. Only here can we eat
my father’s favorite apple—the Jonathan:
medium-sized, sweet with a touch of acid and tough
but smooth skin, good for eating fresh or cooking.
Jonagold and Jonamac litter the stores, and on and on
the grafting grows. Too delicate, the Jonathan was,
for transport perhaps. Or too susceptible to disease
—scab and powdery mildew. Cedar apple rust.

I want so desperately to please him I complain
about other varietals with their fanciful names.

Pink Lady, Red Delicious. But all apples taste
the same to me. After the mill, we rake leaves
into huge piles. Lying amid the must of seasons,
his red beard alight in sun, I imagine a world
without blossom blight, where I might
give those I love everything they want. Or
maybe not, for passions that allow themselves
to be savored and digested are only mediocre.