An apple is not a story.
Its ripeness holds the weight,
tipping juicy balances with time.
Forbidden, to be consumed
in one sitting, tasting line by line,
nibbling crisp tart words, to salivate
and satisfy her vast unquenchable curiosity.
Mystery rests in this pale delicate flesh.
An apple is more than a story. Its primly
wrapped promise a ruse; a guise concealing
secrets of the soil that sustains it with seeds
buried for doubting tongues. Coming to life
for those not afraid of seeing, glutted with ripe
flesh, wasps murmur in the grass, earth-bound
with drunkenness, heedless of the roaring blade
waiting in the trees for its resurrection.
Chlorophyll-laden leaves transform rays of sun
into nectar-filled flowers that become crimson
harbingers of joy, and foreteller of truths. She steps
carefully over the circle of bodies that surround her.
© Nancy Powell, 2013
