Apples

October 2, 2008
By Xian Chen, Hawthorne, NY

Smooth, polished and slightly round
Hung upon a tree branch, innocent
Still, refined, making no sound
As it hangs on its sturdy stems
Some lay on the ground
Red, green, glistening in the morning sun
Till autumn when they will be found
Flaming in colors of the sun
On the grass the shiny fruit sits
Glossy, hard, Christmas colored
As insects gathered around and can't resist
A bite of the crisp and crunchy fruit
One bite of the crispy fruit
And the pure taste escalate in your mouth
The taste of autumn and the aria of the last bird's toot
And the zephyr that carries the autumn scent
A simply pure taste
A smooth polish surface
That all of nature embraced
The apple


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