We all share the same destiny,
king or slave.
But between dawn and dusk
the story is ours.
The apples of an orchard.
Some high on the branches,
growing sweet in the sun,
and some,
falling to the ground,
rotting with the acrid smell of cider.
What determines fate?
Nothing.
Nothing that we know.
Nothing deserved.
Only the chance of a falling star
coming to the earth,
until the orchard is empty,
and the trees have no more shadows.
Was summer wasted?
Was harvest without joy?
Taste them.
Some are filled with the éclair of wine,
phrases coming to the tongue,
cymbals in the crisp bite
of the skin,
while others are sanguine
and friendly.
Like a kiss full of tongue,
meaty and wet,
no two the same.
Wherever they hung,
or however they fell,
bruised or swaddled,
joined in a basket of hope,
of change,
with flowers on a table.
I cherish a face,
a sun,
eyes of rapture,
and I tasted life’s creation,
and knew love played its part
in fate,
made sweet by choosing,
to have,
or have not.