An apple in my pocket
to polish up, peel later
through well-known teeth.
Fingers massage the surface,
it’s not dissimilar to skin,
it can be a reassurance
to feel smoothness.
Yet, I know this apple
will in time wither
if I don’t partake of its flesh,
a future I can measure
from observing yesterday’s faces,
skins wrinkled, seldom kissed.
No life without a small death
somewhere to be acknowledged,
tomorrow, I’ll plant pips
and watch the species grow.
June 13, 2009 at 12:28 am
Only you could make eating an apple a conversation about humanities fragility. I am often astounded by you, seems this time is no different.