Anne Likes Her Apple Crisp

Anne Likes Her Apple Crisp

The apple sings in her palm—

red and green, cool as autumn air.

she bites, and it cracks—the sound sharp, clean,

a burst of juice, sweet and tart like first snowfall.

Flesh snaps beneath her teeth: firm, yet yielding,

grain running smooth as river stones.

Flavours gather—honeyed, grassy, a hint of sunlight,

and something wild, almost hidden.

Each mouthful a crisp promise,

lingering on her tongue—refreshment, and delight.

Then later on…

Anne spoons the flaky, buttery top,

Warm from the oven, golden and bubbling,

Underneath, tender apples—sweet and tangy,

Glossy slices of tart and honeyed flesh,

Soft, yielding yet with a toothsome bite.*

I say this tongue in cheek, with a sigh,

Anne is the apple – you guessed it! – of my eye.

*Our daughter-in-law prepared apple crisp as a gift for Anne

Your friend,

Robert