An apple is not a story.
Its ripeness holds weight,
tipping juice with time,
forbidden to be consumed,
tasting line by line
nibbling, crisp tart words, to satisfy her curiosity, vast and unquenchable.
Mystery rests in this pale delicate flesh.
A primly wrapped promise, a ruse. A guise.
Secrets of the soil that sustain it
seeds buried for doubting tongues,
coming to life for those
not afraid of seeing
the ripe flesh.
Wasps murmur in the grass
Earth-bound with drunkenness,
heedless of the roaring blade.
Waiting in the trees for resurrection
as chlorophyll-laden leaves transform rays of sun
into nectar-filled flowers that will become
crimson foretellers of truths
carefully over the circle of bodies that surround her.
© Carrie Teresa Maison, 2013
Carrie Teresa Maison has more than four years of professional writing experience in various genres. Her poetry has been featured in several online journals and publications. Maison has a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing and is an adjunct professor of English.
