That first sacrament’s
cratered snow was already
turning brown
while they marvelled
at its tartness, the luster
& tight fit of its skin,
its curved descent to orifice.
Then oh the aftertaste —
like wood, like clay.
Click photo for a larger version.
great photo! i’m partial to wild fruit.
Thanks! I only stepped out to take it because I thought I needed an illustration for the poem. I’m glad I did.
Perfect.
The last line is so unexpected and arresting: I keep poking at it with my tongue, so to speak.
And its curved descent to orifice is one of those perfect lines.
Thanks, you guys.
I do love apples. I eat at least a half-dozen a day this time of year. So it’s kind of surprising I don’t write about them more often.