An apple is not a story, ‘tis said.
Its crisp ripeness holds the weight
to tip the juicy balance of time
toward curiosity, vast, unquenchable.
Mystery rests in this pale, delicate flesh.
Apple, more than a story, is truly sublime.
This primly wrapped promise, a ruse, a guise
conceals secrets of the soil that sustains.
Its seeds, buried as doubting tongues malign.
Life comes to each not afraid of seeing
who steps carefully over the circle of
bodies that surround garden left behind.
First bite sacredly taken, consequence known.
Glutted with ripe flesh, hear murmurs in grass
earth-bound drunk, heedless of blade divine.
Waiting for the breeze of resurrection
chlorophyll-laden leaves transform rays of sun
into nectar-filled flowers that will again shine.
Forbidden to consume in one sitting,
nibble crisp tart words, salivate
taste succulent morsels, line by line.
© Joy Martin, 2013