Nearly Ripe Poem by Steven Federle

Nearly ripe, these green apples
hang heavy
from our bursting tree,
the warm evening sun
glinting through swaying branches.

They will be ready
in about a week.

Then I’ll slice them into sweet crescents
And their taste will dance upon your tongue
with all the secrets our tree has been keeping,
its living leaves,
its smooth, grey bark,
its very roots
grasping deep
into our dark soil,

and these glowing, green apples
I will make bare and white and moist,
a love offering like perfect wine for you,
and your taste will delight
in the sweet, green love
of the earth.