Apple Picking
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"Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree." - Martin Luther
Listen to poem:
The old wooden gate is inviting.
A testament to the careful hands of a previous owner. It squeals a greeting as the celtic filigree moss yields to my presence.
I discard my footwear, seeing the need to connect with the fertile green mat of welcome. Apples hang like fragile bejewelled baubles, sweet and dew laden.
A translucent moist mist meanders above the emerald carpet.
I have no intention of disturbing the delicate beauty of the silhouetted trees, yet a whispering invitation begs me to taste and enjoy.
As I pluck the low-hanging blessing, ruddy red and crimson cool to the touch.. the trees whisper again to each other in musical melancholy.
I bite.
Revealing the future of humanity; like Eve, captured by a naive delight. The juice runs away from my lips like an uncontrolled lie.
I ponder, revealing the descendents in this sculptured core, as it falls from my loosened grasp. I can easily count the seeds in this apple, but could never count the apples in each seed.
I sense a Holy moment, knowing my soul will always be grateful for the symphony of the orchestral orchard.
Contest: Apple Picking
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Copyright © Sam Scott | Year Posted 2023
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