This article was originally published by
The Atlantic
and is republished here under license.
The earth is red like an apple
bobbing in a river, floating on a lake.
Twilight cannot make up its mind
if day or night is blue.
From a hilltop
the drilling and the trilling are one.
By moonlight a neighbor is on her roof
brandishing a cane.
Who shall arrange the stars
to set us straight?
Songbirds on a limb
delay their flights at dawn.
And over by the museum’s new wing
a Cézanne fruit bowl is drawing crowds.
The barren tree roots for ancient wisdoms
as the ocean knows what’s true.
The earth is red like an apple
left on the ground.
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