Red,
Green,
Yellow,
Shining and emitting fragrance,
Is the Apple.
The smooth exterior,
The firm skin.
That satisfying crunch when you bite into it,
And the crisp, refreshing flavor that fills your mouth.
Superb,
Succulent,
And never failing to succeed
In pleasing the one devouring its tart sweetness.
Cutting into it reveals a legacy of life renewing itself;
Inside the Apple, seeds sleep,
Their births halted by the consumption of their mother.
A cycle interrupted
Originally when the Apple grew tiresome of its parental tree and,
Despite its gentle warnings,
Descended to the autumn ground.
Stubborn as an ox,
Too impatient to wait,
The childish fruit leaves home prematurely,
Telltale signs of remaining adolescence tracing its skin
In splotches of red and green.
The fruit lands in a sea of orange, red and yellow,
And it inhales the cool, spicy air.
Its moment of peace is interrupted as it finds itself
Being lifted,
Up,
Up,
Up,
Into the air,
A warm, foreign presence wrapped around it.
The Apple’s short-lived freedom is its undoing
As I take a bite,
Breaking its skin,
Savoring it,
Ultimately taking its life.
The Apple doesn’t protest,
Nor has any regrets,
Even as its blood drips down the hand closed around it,
For it has known since birth that
Its destiny was to satisfy the hunger of one
Such as me.