Crabapple Medley

By Carol Barrett

Such a pitiful name assigned them, crabby and without particular charm, mere tabby wandering streets, ravines on rainy days ducking from the sleek Persian’s window gaze.

Deer feed on oval leaves in perfect canopy. October, red jewels hang like cranberry on hickory pine. Neighboring tumbleweed nudge a swollen horizon. November, peach

hued leaves drape tips of branches. Squirrels adore the mini globes that twist and twirl when nibbled. They will not drop of easy accord, even when a flock descends, and, sated, soars,

when wind has wrestled the last leaves loose, snow dons its merry caps. Not till winter stoops to plaintive pleas will they let go succourous cords. The pulp of crabapples, sumptuous

bread pudding makes, or almond coffee cake. A most transparent culinary art, jelly takes pint jars with creamy paraffin lids. For dashing trim to wild turkey: chutney, with a stash

of cashews, apricot wine swirled above the stem. Seed catalogues feature crabapples, named by blossom, not by leaf: Cardinal, Prairifire, Scarlet Brandywine, Weeping Candied Apple. Harlot

petals dance in dark red velvet, or ivory lace. A flicker woodpecker can tilt a limb out of place, so tender the dark tapestry of narrow twigs beyond bearing season. But sparrow,

no movement ampler than the slightest breeze. Crabapples bask in sun. Shade will seize, offend their nature. Let glory bloom. Let flute rustle high branches, and deep bassoon

encircle trunk. Invite dear friends who portend unhurried history, whose syllables lend a dotted parlance. Offer a sprig of mint. Savor the tart crabapple, its wild and wanton grace.