An apple sat in a wicker basket
on the counter of the old farm house,
The days wore away at the ruby skin,
an irregular patter of feet jostled its bed,
and curious mice showed it a rough kind
of hospitality when the old country house slept.
From where it lay stationary it could see
outside the old pane window to its home,
or what remained.
Children climbed each perch and shook
his siblings roughly to the ground, sharing his fate.
He was joined today by his younger brother,
who laughed as he was carried in, pristine.
Night fell again, and the mice once more
scurried around his inanimate body,
and its withered,
harboring a personal vendetta against every
twitching whisker that grew each day
even as he shrunk and his life blood
became a sweet and sticky vapor.
It was too old to be of use, so it was tossed
out under the regressing shade of his patriarch.
and when it melted away revealed a single shoot
of green. And years passed, and many mice were
buried in the rich soil that gave him care and he laughed
with life and moved as children climbed his limbs.