Applesauce

Mary Whyte, "Sister Heyward"

Applesauce

I liked how the starry blue lid

of that saucepan lifted and puffed,

then settled back on a thin

hotpad of steam, and the way

her kitchen filled with the warm

wet breath of apples, as if all

the apples were talking at once,

as if they'd come cold and sour

from chores in the orchard,

and were trying to shoulder in

close to the fire. She was too busy

to put in her two cent's worth

talking to apples. Squeezing

her dentures with wrinkly lips,

she had to jingle and stack

the bright brass coins of the lids

and thoughtfully count out

the red rubber rings, then hold

each jar, to see if it was clean,

to a window that looked out

through her back yard into Iowa.

And with every third or fourth jar

she wiped steam from her glasses,

using the hem of her apron,

printed with tiny red sailboats

that dipped along with leaf-green

banners snapping, under puffs

of pale applesauce clouds

scented with cinnamon and cloves,

the only boats under sail

for at least two thousand miles.

Ted Kooser

Cooking is a kind of poetry. And if you have the right ingredients in the poem - a grandmother, apples, (the scent of cooking apples and spices!), the sense of place and home with a hint of exotic travels, the practiced movements of one who works for love (motions that become almost holy by their intent), it's a dance, a rhythm, almost an elemental force. More than a poem by far.