If I am a fallen apple
Lying on the ground
Those looking from a distance
Will not see me
But will the tree,
and assume
When finally in view
I had not fallen far.
But although much nearer,
I cannot see any tree
From which I, it, let go.
Knowing not how far,
Or if, I have fallen.
Knowing only
That I am bruised.
And wounded.
And confused by choice.
Would it be better
To look for cause, blame?
to seek salve, a cure?
Or lie unnoticed,
Resigned to the
Inevitable rot?
But what if not fallen,
But placed.
not a fallen apple
But a dab of paint.
Perhaps the promise
of a brush stroke
for a painting
too large for me to see
the Artist waiting only
For me to know, believe
I have a different choice.
To let myself be lifted
onto the painter’s pallette
so gracefully extended.
And become all
that was intended,
in the beauty of creation
Or not.
To seek cure,
To attribute blame,
To forgo hope
In holding my bruising.
To vainly rot.
And let my seeds
Begin it all again.