The Apple

Hanging on the oldest tree,

The wind-tossed apple,

Nice with Brie.

So big and green, the juicy treat,

I saw myself in its cheek.

On biting through that clear skin,

My tasty buds began to sing,

Of grass that grows so lush and verdant,

On the way to heaven's pavement.

And as late flowers start to bloom,

The orchard is carpet to God's grand room.

The boughs of trees cast dappled shade,

On sunlit days about to fade.

But underneath a mop-head 'mum,

Has yellow flowers that still can stun.

But all the while a worm does feed,

And saps delight from every seed.