And how am I supposed to know,
Of just how sweet this fruit should grow?
The fruit that takes the spiked and sheltered
Branch above my head.
The simple fact is, I should not.
For in this field where they be got,
The only thoughts permitted are
Those written but not read.

Yet as another week rolls by,
There formed an apple in my eye,
The very same that had before
Been waiting in the tree.
Such beauty beamed above the rest,
A seed alive inside my chest,
And now it’s taken hold I can’t
But watch her grow on me.

Jonathon Best© 2015