A tall mahogany stump rises, splitting the world in halves

textured with specks of light brown bark 

Morphing into distinct sturdy branches that gradually divide

Until they become but slivers of elm reaching the pastel blue sky 

The sun so bright a glittering jewel with a searing cut

It blinds the entire right of the sky 

Towards the centre the mighty oaken divide casts a shadow 

almost across the rest of the picture

Shielding the scarlet apple just tumbling in midair 

The tree leaning far towards it 

But the honeycrisp fully fledged and juicy, far from a seedling

Hurtling, soaring free at last from it’s mother’s grasp

Trying to fall far from the tree 

Half in the dark and half illuminated 

This still moment, the fall from grace, euphoric, 

not slightly raw or rotten but perfectly ripe

Left only to wonder

Will it fall to rot in the sun and be feasted upon by fleas 

Or

Tumble into the sheltered shadow to be picked up with it’s youth preserved 

And be devoured by the monsters of men sucking away the sweet juices

Enjoying the forbidden