Like any tree, apples make themselves welcome in a community;
they prefer wind, rain, temperateness, hills, and a fair bit of sunshine.
Pollinators adore the wispy allure of the fragrant blossoms, who call them
in for a sweet powder-nectared blend of nature’s tang; mutual orgasm achieved.
Bees, butterflies, and birds stagger through the air, intoxicated, imprinted
on polyamorous taste memories of each tree’s, orchard’s fecundity.
The offspring of such rendezvous are imbued with a lust for life, apparent
upon examination and experience in their juiciness, their firm flesh,
In their scent, and in their burnished skin that often blushes when ripe,
They offer themselves in light, through crunch, sip, or slice.
Anmol (alias HA) is today’s host for dVerse. Anmol says:
Today, I am asking you to think of the modest apple and wonder over its histories and mythologies or think of the many metaphors that you can arrive at while biting into its tight skin and soft flesh and inculcate some of that in your writing.
*title from a Beatles tune