Revising a Poem for There's Ghosts in This Machine of Air

“When I die, if I go to a place where there are apples, I’ll know it won’t be heaven.”

After the tractor cooled and dust settled
come into house gone cold, stoke fire’s coals,
peel and slice the windfalls thin, brown sugar
a lemon plucked yesterday from the bough.
Roll dough cold. Cover. Bake an hour.  Gather
the children.  Coax. Read words or written.  Stir
pot hot on iron stove.  Wash the earth from
crooked carrots and beets.  Slice thin into
caste-iron skillet.  Stir with yesterday’s
slaughtered chicken.  Wash the young faces.  Scold
the ones who know better.  Divvy chores: set,
serve eat, clear, wash, scour, hot steam boiled. Lay
the children down. Look for quiet enough.
Sit beside the glowing coals, song pouring
back into the fire what’s burned out.