That Apples Don’t Fall Far

That apples don’t fall far from the tree is a reliable condition of living.

Some drop when the rains don’t come,

when it’s too hot,

when birds shake the branches,

when induced by myriads of unknown reasons.

With selfish care of knowledge gleaned

I myself pluck fruits to foil burrowing worms

and the diseases of time.

The rest expand in peace.

On bent branches

they ripen under the languorous sun,

and gather up their sweetness with the arrival of cold

creeping along the ground,

winding its way up the trunk with serpentine grace.

At last, the orchard awakens with the scent of apples,

with the desperate hum of frenzied piratical bees,

with drying grass and far away sun warmth

between tendril caresses of cooled breeze.

Then, I walk through the garden

carefully inspecting laden branches,

until searching, I find the one fruit,

unblemished, whole and perfect,

with which I can tempt you to eat.

This poem was previously published in the Medium Publication "The Lark". https://medium.com/the-lark/that-apples-dont-fall-far-e7937256325c

Photo by Skylar Zilka on Unsplash