my uncle’s apple farm
lives in my memory.
I remember how I
looked forward to going
for a week every year
at the end of summer
when row after row
of trees would be filled
with so many different
kinds of ripening apples
tempting me to pick them
and devour them
right then and there
in the orchard
not worrying that
I hadn’t washed them
as my mother always
demanded that I do.
I remember how I,
completely unaware,
raced through the immigrant
farm hands’ tiny trailers,
thrilled that an obstacle course
had been set up just for me
to play hide and seek
with my pet beagle
who joined us at the farm
every year until he died.
I remember how I
hunted for frogs and bugs
day after day
hour after hour
by the deep green tiny pond
hidden from prying adults
hidden by an overgrowth
of tall grass, reeds, and bushes.
I remember picking
corn, squash, and tomatoes
just before dinner time
so they were super fresh,
tasting unlike anything
we ever got from a store
in the suburbs where we lived.
I remember
competitions
to see who could eat
the most ears of corn
because it was so sweet,
light, and not yet starchy.
I remember waking
as early as I could
to go collect a basket
of eggs that just had been laid,
having to carefully
reach under the chickens
like I was a thief
stealing great treasures.
I remember our visits
seeming both endless and short.
and I remember
the long car rides home,
the long silent car rides home,
without a single word said,
by my mom or dad
or sister or me,
each of us grimly staring
into the growing darkness
as the sun slowly set
and our visit faded.
my uncle’s apple farm
lives in my memory
hiding the rest
of my childhood
from me.

 

Read other haiku poems by Peter in KOM’s Poetry Corner.