The Apple

I lay spread-eagle in a field orchard; Surrounded on four sides by long-grown, green grass On a dry, October's noon. Nonchalant. I watched a small squirrel climb a tree, close; The branches shaking violently still. With a soft thud, a bespeckled fruit fell, And I watched it drift past my outstretched palm. I thought of a line I'd heard too often; "No man is an island."- or so they say. I came to see with what I was content: Though I could lay in that soft aroma, Alone with the sweet sound of wind through grass; Though I enjoyed spending time all alone; I am afraid of living life lonely. Terrified of being the star ungazed; Of leaving nothing behind but my words, For words can and will always be challenged. As I stared on all that is celestial, The constellations of my soul aligned. In my emotion, the grass became rye; For whilst I sought to be Camus' Mersault I was but Salinger's Holden Caulfield- Painfully aware of the blades of grass; Too faddish of their personalities, Yet hurt more mentally by their absence. Still, the hardest part of this loneliness, Is living knowing it was my own fault.