Day 588

Take a photograph of this apple; it will be
the last apple you see for months.
Maybe forever?  Even dry,
even mealy, you long
to bite into it — and you long
to preserve it.  Whole.  Untouched.
So you know what an apple
looked like.  So, on days
even worse than this, you
can remember.  Once
apples grew on a tree
in your garden.  Once you could
pick them whenever you wanted,
whenever they grew ripe.  Once
you sat on soft grass
surrounded by fallen apples.
Now you have paid so much
to buy this one at a shop
with shelves nearly empty.  The last
apple.  The last day
of the last fruit.