One looks at the flaw and rejects it, ignores
its otherwise firm and blushing skin;
pushed aside for one with no outer
faults, nor guaranteed inner beauty.

The branches
speckle with imperfection as
over and over again they are
left, destined for the the press.

It is the way we pick
apples, so obsessed with beauty fit
well to our hand, driven toward the next
which may possibly exceed the last. Happily, we
cart our bags back to the trunk,
each selecting the chosen one to eat
on the way home. We compare, compliment and
complain as we gouge away--too grainy,
tart, juicy, crisp,


soft-silently wondering,
which one was best
and who had it. Then at home,
following tradition, we gather ‘round
the cider jug and taste
the faultless blend,
the anonymous
blood of neglected
fruit, quietly claiming
victory.



Laura King, 5/7/09