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The Humble Fruit



It fits square in the round of palm

With promised heft belies its charm

A burnished gold a crimson rouge

A mix of both is what I choose

Plucked off tree it’s soft with heat

Yet still I cannot help but eat

Perfect crisped in cellar hold

I do prefer its flesh quite cold

The sound it makes when teeth break skin

A snap, a shoosh, juice drips down chin

There’s nothing quite like fruit of apple

As youth, in orchard, with a lapful

Oh magic made when it’s transformed

Sweet or salty, chilled or warmed

An apple pie is oh so fine

And pork with apples is divine!

Our breadth of meals would be so hapless

If ever trees grew bare and app-less

Though people pass them up as stale

(They don’t refuse it as an ale!)

But there’s one thing I know for sure

There’s little else that tastes as pure

When spiced and mulled in heavy mug

Familiar as a mother’s hug…

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