CG Express

I passed by the apple tree many times,
Walking around the block.
White buds,
Green apples,
Fat, red, imperfect,
Organically growing,
On a tree.
I saw apple pie,
Applesauce,
Apple fritters,
Juicy bites of sweetness,
But I dare not gather,
From my neighbor’s tree,
So I watched them pass their prime,
Get heavy and fall,
Litter on the ground.
They cut it down.
Now there is only grass.

People don’t know the gifts that are right there in their lives.