"Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree." - Martin Luther
The old wooden gate is inviting. A testament to the careful hands of a previous owner. It squeals a greeting as the celtic filigree moss yields to my presence. I discard my footwear, seeing the need to connect with the fertile green mat of welcome. Apples hang like fragile bejewelled baubles, sweet and dew laden. A translucent moist mist meanders above the emerald carpet. I have no intention of disturbing the delicate beauty of the silhouetted trees, yet a whispering invitation begs me to taste and enjoy. As I pluck the low-hanging blessing, ruddy red and crimson cool to the touch.. the trees whisper again to each other in musical melancholy. I bite. Revealing the future of humanity; like Eve, captured by a naive delight. The juice runs away from my lips like an uncontrolled lie. I ponder, revealing the descendents in this sculptured core, as it falls from my loosened grasp. I can easily count the seeds in this apple, but could never count the apples in each seed. I sense a Holy moment, knowing my soul will always be grateful for the symphony of the orchestral orchard. Contest: Apple Picking Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
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