By Mario Capaldi

Freckled blisters on green apples,

Are perfect imperfections,

Like the contours of your skin.

By the river I drink you in,

Soak up your ripeness,

And taste the bitter of your lips:

You tart fruit; heady liquor.

Beyond the bend in the river,

Where haze meets sky,

I grew my tree.

And in its branches you grew me.

Flower fruit seed,

From my source to your sea,

Waters carry our apples.

Drink deep, drink fast and free.