Wednesday, April 12, 2006

apples

the intention like an apple held to tempt, before there were eyes like these
an idea blocking the passage of the world
endless ecstasy endless agony endless is our hope endless the spin

the apple grows with each caramel refined, and we call progress
by its righteous name
greed for movement, aquiring need

the apple sits, waits, lies
it is endlessly round, and red
stares back with our own gleam - why we gave it the world's weight too
the glinted sinking stone
our of joy, and our fear
that which we pretend not to taste

apple, the good doctor, the medicine before time, and after
Our time

Can the endless end, the soulless fill with soul, the breathless breathe?
can a new question come, unannounced, to await our knowing's growing?

Applesauce, cider, the thing or the marmelade
a fountain of nonsense leading back inside
up the tree and down the mountain to a lake
which neither you, nor I, can or will escape