• The apple is smooth
    like newly polished mahogany wood.
    It shines like the morn, fresh with dew.
    It is crimson like the single leaf of the oak tree
    that still clings on until the dying days of fall.

    Now I see the blood of men
    from wars long past
    swirl upon its surface.

    Now it is the cheek of an ever laughing child
    always laughing
    and never knowing just why.

    Now it is the sky brushed with pink and red as the sun passes by
    everyday making a masterpiece that once is gone is lost forever to the skies
    only remembered in the viewers mind.

    Now a new meaning has bee found
    for the apple I hold delicately in my hands
    not wanting to let go
    for the fear
    of marring
    its perfect
    surface.