There my arm extending
to Heaven still as I was
reaching up to that branch
that is there to pick the
perfect apple to fill that
barrel beneath my ladder
Where it is up against the
tree. As I pick, and remove
the apples, and place them
knowing where though
after a long picking of the
rype ones that are perfect
and ready to be picked just
right.
After the barrel of apples
is full I leave them with a
touch by a human hand
and where I’ll leave not going
to be and I store them in
a place of stay in a well kept
place. Where I’ll know to go
when the first snows fall
or the early spring of flowers.
And so where the blooms
of the tree though grow
That new apple that is ready
To be picked once more in
the fall.
As I hemper my stance and
Walk from there with one apple
In hand.
And a mind full of knowing
But when I look at an apple
Do I not wonder though? Where
Did it all go. As I think
no more of idle against
myself for a human is the
best for the rest to learn
how to grow with the
persilitating and it’s grittling
work but this is to keep
my barrels full though.
And yes it is true That I
only see it through, and
Through but both of the
apples are fair and sweet.
The tasteless wonder doesn’t
leave me and so there I take
the apple upon my hand that
is before me to put in a place
of stay to be kept very well
only if a human hand touch
ever so well as will if only
If only that - a human can
tell how to keep it very well.

© The realist