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two crescents of an apple cut precisely in half overnight they must have mated as in a time-lapse photograph one half swollen, long stretch-marks curved over its skin the black seeds heaped on the platter must have spilled from the other for it takes only one to make a litter of apples so small I mistake them for red grains of dust but in minutes they’ve packed a thick round of flesh between their cores & their skin a fast coat of gloss & that skin begins to shine so tempting I reach for an apple start to cut with my sharpest knife when suddenly I’m surrounded-- an orchard of newly born appletrees smack in the heart of my kitchen & I’m breathing appleblossoms even when I step outside where snow’s thickly falling the wind howling like wolves. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact BARBARA F. LEFCOWITZ) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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