Friday, May 9, 2014

Inferior Apples

The best apples dangle from the top of the tree,
High up in stature, they're hidden from me.
I can't really see them but know they are there,
Sneering down while enjoying the crisp autumn air.

I stand in the tree's shadow and don't see a ladder,
But without marketable skills what does it matter?
I don't know how to climb and I'm fearful of height –
Elite apples don’t care as they hog all the sunlight.

My only hope is that they will fall pristine in my hand,
But if I upset the tree, from the orchard I'm banned.
Picking low hanging apples is thus all I can do –
Resigned to my station, I settle for fruit of less value.

The highest apples continue to gorge on most of the bountiful sun,
Leaving nothing but slivers of dim light when they're done.
The poor masses that congregate close to the ground,
Are left stunted and bitter and subdued, I have found.

While the choicest fruit grows sweet, plump and ripe,
I labour hard to collect that of a more unsavoury type.
This goes on and on until my confidence is eroded,
My posture stooped and independent thought imploded.

Until finally the superior apples get so heavy they fall,
And the inferior ones no longer seem so inferior at all.

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