Meditations on an Apple

Candle body, stem wick,
always hinting at flame.

If not for my eyes there is
no red, only red’s potential.
Thus no apple shape or size
at all.

Whether you’re pie or cider
some of you will be human
and some in the sewer.

Your name was a freighted net
catching all kinds of fruit
till the others left
and you were left.

What is it with us wanting you
in particular to have been

Something will eat you rotten
if I don’t ripe.

A million trees led up to one
little you, in whom perhaps there
hide a hundred million more
or none.