The New Eden

I reach for the last Red Delicious apple on the tree – just out of my reach.

And, as I stretch impossibly, the palm of my right hand extended as a chalice, a supplication, a prophesy…

The dangling apple, full of fragrant sugars made of sunlight and earth, mostly glossy red, with a blush of fine yellow stripes, its classical profile narrowed toward the five- pointed base, silently detaches from the still leafy spur, floats the short appearance of space downward, and kisses the expectant palm, whose fingers, like a lotus flower at day’s end, close  in and secure that which, here, is not forbidden.


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