The Gift

                      The Gift

I find an apple a most satisfying snack.
I prefer Fuji apples, and Galas, freshly picked

from the orchard by my house.  I like to go
early in the season when the summer sun still

lingers in the crisp September sky and I can pluck the
deep red fruit, plump and round or, sometimes,

heart-shaped from the low branches and holding
it, heavy in my hand, shine it up on my sweater.

What I like most about eating my just picked apple
is how when I take a bite the skin crackles

as though my teeth are breaking the ribbon
and tearing off the wrappings of a precious gift,

which they are.  And then the cool taste: at first
sweet on my tongue's tip, then slightly tart in my jowls,

the juice drizzling down, tickling the sides of my throat.
And the white flesh: firm, flush and fresh with

rainwater and sunshine, clear air and dark earth,
so that with each bite it is as though I am absorbing 

each of those elements and something else
that binds them all together.  Call it grace.

Image by Elizabeth Richter