The Poetry of the Apple

She sat the phone down, another conversation ended. Her thoughts began to inundate her now quiet mind and so she found little tasks to occupy her the rest of the day. She would do the dishes, wipe the counters, dust the furniture, clean each bathroom, wash, dry, fold and put away the clothes and sweep the house. Outside, she pulled all of the new weeds; swept the porch…the driveway…the sidewalk…the neighbor’s sidewalk. She began picking up the rocks that were scattered about out of her garden and returned them to their rightful places.
Dinner was elaborate as she kept herself focused on keeping busy. More menial responsibilities were tended to and the hours slowly elapsed.
Her bath was long and welcomed, but the thoughts that accompanied it were not. Moments of tears swelling up in her eyes as her loneliness began to invade her relaxing moment moved her out of the tub and onto more distractions.
She picked up a book and tried to enjoy it, to no avail, so she flipped on the television. Her lack of interest and high morals flipped it back off. She found no solace in any of the things that she tried to grasp onto as meaningful and resolved to go to bed early.
With the light switched off the blackness of the room hugged her. She found her way through her room and into bed and laid down slowly. The warmth of the blankets she covered herself with began to relax her senses and she closed her eyes.
The normal thoughts that visited her everynight showed up, right on time. She pushed a few of them away, analyzed those that were still undecided and welcomed the few that actually were pleasant. Even with the silence of the house, the hustle within her pushed her weariness to the back of her mind and she lay there unable to sleep.
The different thoughts that danced for her attention began to settle down and take a seat as poetry began, once more, to unfold a story for her. She wanted to get up and write it down, but knew that any movement now would surely cause the poetry to lose its balance and fall off the stage. So, she remained as still as she could and took in the unfolding art before her mind:

“An apple lay motionless on a shallow bank in a stream.
It was quite out of sight to those not passing by.
A young lady spied it when she found herself there by chance.
Eventually continuing her journey it remained there in place.

The years would pass, others would reach for it now.
She did not know any of them, their stories untold.
As turbulence interrupted her once happy life
She began taking walks to clear her saddened mind.

An apple, once more, did she see in that stream
Closer to the edge this time wondering if she could reach.
As she stood on the bank, her arms held out straight
She began to contemplate how the apple would taste.

Quite often when she was about to retrieve the fruit
One would call or visit or summoned she would be.
Each distraction kept her away for a few days.
Yet to the apple on the bank she returned always.

Without a warning, the phone rang and interrupted her as she began to see herself on the stage. She went to get the phone, leaving each verse in the dark of her room. After a short conversation she attempted to return to the stage in her mind. By now, the seats were empty, the stage bare, and loneliness stepped in.

She looked at loneliness and lonelinss looked at her. As they stared into each other’s eyes they both conferred the poetry just told. She gave way to the tears that now knocked on the door. As they fell off her cheeks she fell into sleep.


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