By Vadim Lavrusik
I was thinking about apples,
how I always bring them to you
and on occasion they are ripe,
or sometimes rotten from being neglected
in the cool of my fridge and I know you like
them ripe but not too soft, juices oozing
from the edge of your mouth with every bite,
remembering how I first studied you in New Orleans,
later discovering you under a small-town
sky and how I learned to love you in
the little apple, but how each morning after
learning you loved apples, I delivered you one,
sometimes blood red and maybe pale green,
you accepted them,
and now you save them
and say they are crowding you, and they are
too ripe and how I still bring you apples
every day hoping to change your mind.
