Friday, May 10, 2013

Not really a poem

Tumbling blasted cold and free
broken from the humble tree
What fresh, sweet treat is this?
but a bruise on the skin
a blemish, a spot, imperfection

Tumbled and rolled, dizzying spin
beneath a crate, lost again
Crisp, cold, fresh and spotted:
the apple's taste grows perfected
sweeter the longer it's neglected. 

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