Everything is a miracle,
if you stop a second
To breathe it in.
Even this apple,
Just a simple little fruit,
A little uneven and leaning to one side,
With splashing flames of golden.
Born of improbability--time, rain, sun, blooms, bees--
In an orchard west of here.
...how old is the tree?
...who picked this apple?
...do they love honeycrisps as much as I do?
....or maybe more?
All this before the sweet flesh passed my lips,
Before the juices dribbled down my chin.
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