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.