Poem for Wednesday and Catoctin Mountain Orchard

Orchard
By Luisa A. Igloria

It's fall, season of the apple—iconic
fruit of this America, mounds of excess
littering the grounds of orchards
from want of migrant hands to pick
the harvest clean: their red the banner
of every girl or woman who tips her head up
to the knowledge of her power—which means
she can see the way things work in the world,
and chooses not to be shamed any longer
for calling it. For what did the hissing
in the leaves tell her that she didn't
already know, or the laughter behind
closed doors when she ran, groping
her way out? Don't pretend you don't
know what I want, said every snake
in the grass. Survival means no one
dies, but someone is forced to take
the fall: the smallest bird, the lowest
fruit—though the fruit isn't to blame
for its sheen, nor the star for marking
the place where its light was last seen.

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Tuesday was a lot like Monday: laundry and holiday card chores, Adam working on his guitar, beautiful weather for a walk. I got only half the email for Cyber Monday than I did for Giving Tuesday, both of which are always a wake-up call for unsubscribing from mailing lists, meaning any that sends more than one email whether it's a bargain or a request for political assistance or one of the guilt-tripping "SEND $50 NOW OR ABORTION WILL BE ILLEGAL AND ALL THE BEES WILL BE EXTINCT IN TWO MONTHS!" 

We had faux ham and cheese pie for dinner plus some of the fruit Deborah sent us for Chanukah, then we lit the third candle. Adam, who has a bit of a cold, opted to watch The Wheel of Time with us in the evening, for which I didn't have high hopes because everyone says the books jumped the shark and it was a lot like Game of Thrones, but it actually has much more empowered women and absolutely no rapes in the first two episodes, so I'm really enjoying it so far! Some photos from Catoctin Mountain Orchard last weekend: