The Apple

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On the old tree, hanging on the scrawny, leafless branch,
is an apple.
An apple as red and perfect as a ruby,
shining in the winter’s faint sun.
It is the only thing left on the ancient, gray-barked tree.
It won’t last forever.
Nothing lasts forever.
Even the brightest apple on the grayest tree.
I feel bad that the crisp, fresh apple will die.
So I pluck the apple from the branch and take a bite.

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