by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Rosy-red crab apples lay
on the ground in front of us
as we walked in the chilled air
near a forested lake.
Fifty years ago
the same red crab apples
were picked up
by a college student
as she strung them
on a string around her neck.
She knew this was a beginning
of the path she would follow,
a path centering herself to the earth.
This also was a period of darkness
where a string of blackness
would catch her in a trap.
But there were people
like the shepherd mother
of the small dorm where she stayed
who taught her
there were good and trustworthy people:
apples that lay at our feet,
red like young girls’ cheeks
in the chilled fall air.
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