I remember the taste of it
Sweet, and crisp- and fresh.
Fresh as the wind that was in it
That day.
My Grandfather, standing there,
Under an Irish sky
Holding a branch of the small
Apple tree
As if holding the hand of creation
And offering to me the scented
Globe gifted to him.
I remember the smell of it
The honey sweet scent of it
As we raked and laughed and
Lay down in it
Our squinting eyes seeking
Out the hovering rain clouds.
I remember the wet, damp
Feel of it
The small hands imitating his
As sod upon sod was piled
Into the perfect pyramid
Allowing the warm airs to perform
Their miracle.
I remember the smoke of it
And the wild mushroom cooked on it.
That September day I remember
The joy of it
Knowing that this day
Would be forever.
I remember the look of them
The all that I could ever feel
Stomach churning beauty of them
As my fingers touched theirs
For the first time.
I remember the day that I found the place where he had lain her.