Well. Here I am. Again. At the grove of existence.
Eating a Granny Smith apple and letting it do what it does best:
be bright, be sharp, be unforgiving at first.
If you bite too quickly, it’s only tang—clean, green, almost rude.
But if you hold it there—pressed between your tongue and the roof of your mouth—
and give it a moment to admit what else it is,
a honeyed sweetness starts to seep around the palate, slow as sap,
as if sweetness was never absent—only reserved.
I love that.
How two distinct flavors can make something whole
without either one pretending.
The flesh gives with a firm resistance. The air lifts light notes of marzipan and almond,
and—faintly—something like red berries, which shouldn’t be here,
except memory doesn’t care what’s “supposed” to happen.
My incisors do their work. The mouth takes what the mouth takes.
Under the skin’s strict green: white balance, crisp and steady—
goodness that doesn’t advertise itself.
And underneath even that, I can feel the current of it—
root to tree, tree to branch, branch to fruit, fruit to my hand,
my hand to my mouth—
a small liturgy of cause and consequence,
the world passing through itself, intact.
Ah, the excellence in its rawness.
And still—my mind can’t help pairing it.
Butter. Salt. Warm spice. The darker sweetness of a kitchen at dusk.
Granny taught me how to bake, after all:
how to turn sourness into comfort,
how to make something appetizing from what bites back.
If only Smith ever cared to stay for dessert.