Ripe

I have found the perfect apple.

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I have found the perfect apple.

It hangs here, smooth and firm against my palm.
It has a lovely curve, pink streaks and a green collar circling the stem.
It is the perfect apple.

Here it grew five months,
This branch its home,
Its cells doing what cells do:
Their secret, private work.

Now, it rests in my hand,
Perfect,
And I can take it,
Break its connection,
Sever its strength.

It will go home in my basket.
It will feed my longing, delight my desire.

If I left it, would it hang,
Its beauty unblemished, unscarred
By knife, teeth, or time?

It would fall,
Its cupped stem’s lip unkissing the mother branch,
Shoving away toward the insistent earth—

Birds would eat it,
Or worms, or deer,
And then, the earth itself—
The earth, who eats all things at last.

Look. I will put the apple in my basket.
I will take it home.

No, I will eat it now, this moment.
It is ready now.

If I could choose, I too would go this way.
All of me—ripe, strong, sweet, ready—
Delightedly doing
What I was made to do.

© 2014 Deborah King

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