Apples

The apples must be ripe;
They’re falling one-two-three,
Without a breath of wind
To shake them from the tree.

I catch them as they fall,
And never have I felt
As if my solid form
Were more inclined to melt.

As such, that points the way
That I should set out on:
There is no me no more;
My separateness is gone.

It isn’t that I live
But that life’s living me.
That’s why I’m standing here,
Beneath this apple tree.

Photo by Marek Studzinski on Unsplash

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