I feel the cool, cool breeze,
on a burning day, tickle my nose,
the maturing corn fragrant,
the tassels denoting matriculation
to another kind of destiny.
I see the apples bursting,
crashing in their tumble
from branches taller than me,
the height of summer approaching,
the dawn of pie making nearer.
I hear the pea sheller complain
about another thankless chore,
unaware about how we smash them
into our mashed potatoes,
the gravy their pool of delight.
I smell the late evening petrichor,
heavy with oak and mown grass,
each note part of a feverish melody,
the tune repeating, as familiar as
the memories laid bare before me.
I taste the pungent cherries,
the patient lesson about pitting,
keeping as much flesh as possible,
the ghosts watching my hands,
the heads nodding eternal approval.
Christopher Stolle’s writing has appeared most recently in San Antonio Review, Sheepshead Review, Flying Island, Tipton Poetry Journal, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The New Southern Fugitives, The Alembic, Gravel, The Light Ekphrastic, and Plath Poetry Project. He’s an editor for DK Publishing and he lives in Richmond, Indiana.