Rotten Apple

I dream of becoming an apple
Maybe a Honey-Crisp
My daughter has become a Makintosh
Because she married a Scot
Named Makintosh.
She's the apple of my eye
And still I remain an old man

I am surrounded by apple farms
In upstate N.Y.
My neighbor owns 65 acres
Planted with apples, peaches and cherries
His neighbor to the East owns many acres of 
Apple trees and his neighbor to the south
Owns many acres of apple trees and their neighbor
To the East owns many acres of apple trees
They were smart and started a cidery
Where I end up sometimes, mid-hike
To have a few, and continue on with a buz

I hike for hours and never see a road
The mind becomes calm
And I forget the woes of a world gone mad
At first I think a lot stepping along the path
That the picking trucks take, uneven, ruts
Where the rain has cut the soil which
Is a mixture of hard clay, gravel, and a sand
And clay mix pocked with stones
Which is perfect for growing apples.
Thinking slows, the gaps between thoughts
Start to resemble, take on the rhythm
Of the gaps between trees.
The ground under the trees is littered
With apples that have fallen of their own accord
Much like thoughts dropping from my mind
Some burst, some are mawed, mouthed by various animals
That wander through. Others rot over time
And seep into the soil
This is the point I was getting at, my fantasy
To drop away from it all, to become thin skinned
With my juicy flesh, sweet with sugars
Turning brown and drifting away
Into a dampness on sand filled clay
That no longer can be discerned
As the apple that I was.


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