The day we discovered the apple tree

we crawled on our knees to gather the ones that had dropped;

our fingers traced the softened pock marks, the partially round, the one-sided and the distorted—

each apple a life that deserved a complete and loving examination

as any candidate bound for cobbler should be.

And for the ones still clinging to the tree,

we discouraged the bees from their surface clutch

and linked our hands together so as to make a step

from which to reach the apples aloft.

Those too received their seasonal inspection

and the bucket swelled from sunken to round;

some too petite too peel, others with their spoiling divets—

not one unable to give at least,

a fingernail bite of bitter sweetness

of which we had many—

a bowl filled with tiny, sour cutouts to spread around the bottom of the pan;

the top of course, a mixture of oats and sugar, flour and butter

and one egg whose shells we extracted with surgical precision

from the awaiting, jumble of flavors.

Its marriage with the oven soon then did flood the house

in ardor

so that later,

we could eat each piece of unduplicated deliciousness

as if we had anything to do with it.