Ripe apple

What’s a ripe apple
Hanging true red and firm
And plump full of promise?

The fruit of a summers sun
And the labour
Of natures effort,

That then falls and rots
Like dreams unfulfilled
In uncaring earth.

Decomposing to become
Damp soil that feeds
The next generation

That dies in a similar way.
And feeds the ones to come
In endless cycle.

Hope and love and procreation
Share this process
And give us perspective.

Life’s not what we are.
We’re more by far.
Some greater thing that

Looks down and sees
The simple machine
That whirls in agony

And joy and energy
And mystery.
To be alive is just a phase

And an opportunity
To see what we are
From a unique and sensual view

That may hurt sometimes
But which will help us to see
Our sweet vulnerability.




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