whitebearlake

White Bear Lake circa 1988

I remember crabapples,

in the pale soft grass, so unlike

these sharp-bladed swaths of lawn, sand-pocked and spiked with thorns.

I had crouched beneath the tree in the creeping twilight,

picking up the fruits one by one,

like figurines, reproductions in miniature.

I remember: I held each one with reverence,

running small thumbs over its dull perfect skin,

as unfamiliar as the grass, the twilight,

the dryness of the air.

And I remember, as I bit into one, then another,

the disbelief of the bitterness on my tongue,

throwing each aside and trying the next;

the swell of discontent, the search for sweetness;

the growing pile of crabapples, left to rot in dying sun.