Apples

Apples

I decided last night that the apple trees are bouquets
The land gives the sky, to show his adoration,
And the sunset is her blushing in return.
There are no thorns in his love for her, so he cannot give her roses.

I thought then that all the people you meet will offer you apples
From whatever secret garden they are made of.
You must discover which legend they are grown from.
Whether these apples, shining eager in your hands,
Might start a war, or resurrect the dead. 
Whether they are the key that summons fairies
In their crystal boat
Or the temptation to do what it is you mustn't.
The apples may deceive you.
They may banish you from some perfect place
You were meant to live in,
They may tell you, shyly, the name of your lover,
So you can ride through the night, on the nearest horse, to find him,
Or show you a husband
You can make and mend a life with.
They may bring you luck or stick in your throat with their poison,
But your strength, and the grace of those who love you,
Will be antidote enough.

Some people's apples may give you Avalon; the glory and the peace of it.
So your heart, bruised as it is by thunderstorms and vagabonds,
Will feel content, and you will know of the strange alchemy
Between tenderness
And your own wellbeing.

Apples are not a simple fruit if the stories are believed.
And we are not simple people,
Who have simple answers to all the questions we must carry.

We are always learning,
And I keep learning this:
There are people in this world
Whose apples are a joy I can bite into and relish,
They are magic, too, because the apple never grows smaller.
The gladness they offer does not reach an end.

This is how we are sustained.
By each other.
By the way we leave the baskets of bad apples
And allow ourselves the good.

    Witness

    Witness

    Syncratica

    Syncratica