Orchard

Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, 

I would still plant my apple tree.

Martin Luther

Green
 Orbs of white flesh
 And syrupy sweet tart juice
Wrapped in polka-dotted green 
Sunshine. Apples, apples, apples
Hanging ripe—ready to be picked 
Stems twisted and plucked 
So firm and real in my hand 
So imperfectly perfect 
Apples.