It’s the epiphany in the apple bites

bright and gleaming

honey-lemon salt—

we have always felt this,

born diluted, born wanting—


the moon climb into the sky and kiss her lover goodnight

while we melt down to nothing,

fingers sunk into dark earth

sleep pressing us to forget—

trees blaze on the hilltops

outlining the sky—

dust lights up the air

and fire makes our palms red,

frames our skeleton in light.

And we think

this smooth face can spin pollen into gold and back again

and we think 

God might have been real once,

after all.

Image credit: Photo by Diana Vargas on Unsplash