Peeling Apples

Careful as a surgeon, Joe concentrates
on peeling an apple, guiding the knife
so the curled peeling holds together
in one piece, like a corkscrew dangling.

We sit on crates in the shade of the oak
surrounded by bushels of apples. 
A mockingbird sings from the roof
of my nearby house.

Joe slices the apple to hand me
a wedge. I savor the juice
as I bite into its crispness,
reach for another piece.

Cores dropped 
behind bushels 
send out a scent of cider. 
A late summer breeze
carries it over the cotton field
all the way to the pines
behind the barn—
the scent of cider,
the hint of yellowing 
leaves and an early frost.

REBECCA YANCEY

Rebecca Yancey is a retired English teacher now living in Lebanon, Tennessee. She learned about the power of poetry from teaching at Jackson State Community College. She has published in The Lummox, Miramar, Ibbetson Street #44, Muddy River Review, The Orchard, and Plainsong. She was a finalist in a one-sentence poetry contest at Third Wednesday. When she is not writing, she enjoys gardening, walking in beautiful places, reading, and spending time with family and friends.