Ena Nin


Apple Picking - Poem by Ena Nin

Those apples in bushels:
green, some yellow,
and in many shades of red.
Jonamac, Braeburn, Jonathan
McIntosh, Empire, Spartan;
they are all shiny.
Cleaned and polished,
radiance bounces off skin,
catches finicky eyes.

From tart to acidic, to bitter,
good ones are said to be ‘set.’
Which one is the sweetest?

“Make more time to know them, ”
my mom often enjoins.
Two kinds there are,
and so I thought I learned:
the cultivated and wild ones.

Like artists wanting habitat,
apples root best on hillsides
and on mountain slopes;
haven for the many honing art.

From deciduous trees they come,
with foliage withering at the end
of each growing season.
Ah, they too, revealed by time.

Golden Delicious it could be,
or Red Delicious, perhaps.
So many different varieties,
various textures and sizes,
not one similar apple.
But slice them open
then wait awhile,
they all seem
to turn brown.


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 13, 2010



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