Ode to Cidering  From trees unpicked, un-lovely, un-named fruitfallen in October’s bluster, not Winesap,not Northern Spy, but yellow-skinned, blemish more than flesh. Flung on the tarp.Everything sticky. Gathered into buckets,even the wasps. Fruit, worms and all, decanted into the wooden press that takesthe strength of two to work—you smashthe tubful with a wooden club. I […]