Carol Berg

When you choose me
think of spring blossoms.

Small phoebe on a twig
with its tail

twitching, readying
for the chase of mayfly

or mosquito. Think
of pink’s unfurl,

bark of childhood trees.
In your hand, I the squeezable

breast, the promise of a heart.
You can break me apart

then flick away the seeds.
No rancor, no pleas.

Palette of red,
how I blend with yellow

into orange, a sunset.
My skin spattered with stars.

A canvas of unnamed
constellations. And when you finally

bring me to your lips,

once I was part sky
once you were part forest.

“The Apple Speaks” appeared in the 2011 edition of the Labletter.

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