The penultimate day of Napowrimo’s prompt.
I.
The Apple: old reliable.
Constant as the day is sure to occur after night.
Like a warm blanket
The handshake that is of appropriate firmness.
The gaze that doesn’t linger.
Words of encouragement that are measurably appropriate to a situation.
Your honest heart’s true beat.
Something you’re happy to find close to the tree.
II.
I was told
They keep the doctor away.
But just like these apples
I’m growing soft
And lumpy
And I taste my own rot.
Near or far from the tree
Is really beside the point
When everything is
Telling you
That honesty
Isn’t going to make you
Live forever.
And if there is a forever
Holy hell.
I’m already halfway to interring
Myself into the mud.
What’s it going to be like
When it swallows me whole?
Maybe I’m marked as eventual food
For some other enterprising
Apple picker.
Instead,
I’ll just settle in
And let the mud take me
Until it’s time
For the honest beating
To go off rhythm.
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