Places Of Transit

Silent. Invisible nearly.

An old tree full of aged fruit.

Through this appled forest how glad we were to run,

playing hide-and-go-seek. And always the hours worked out alright.

Apples – sweet and soundless, fallen now to the ground, and of which 

there are many, garbed in lime greens and the brightest of reds.

. . . . .

“What we seek, at the deepest level, is inwardly to resemble, rather than physically 
to possess, the objects and places that touch us through their beauty.” 

– Alain de Boton

. . . . .

Branches full leaning down, away from a polished sky of blue,

greeting the hand that craves their fabulous fresh flesh.

All things in their season – steady, swiftly coming and going.

Growing, some imageless in their own private space.

Now, something else.

Without waiting, we steal a bite.

Silent. Invisible nearly.