Golden, Cortland, Empire, 
McIntosh, Delicious, 
even crab—in short, 
she’ll grab them all, my small 
girl-child, in or out of season— 
clutch summer’s hard greens 
or cradle fall’s red survivors, 
wormholes and all, she’ll call them 
her windfall, her doctor-a-day. 
I’ll call them her healthy 
curiosities, her tongue’s delight. 
No wonder she wonders at their maker: 
who cast the first seeds out 
with a generous hand, 
who colored the blossoms 
white, then tinted their insides pink? 
No wonder she’s grown curious 
and quick, sexual and rebel, 
until she preempts all commands 
from her father and orders him about: 
that one, that one, no, that one! 
In short, she’s defenseless 
against wonder, against inquisition’s 
pitfalls, that is, the Fall 
into the Pit. Defenseless against apples 
laced with law, or poison, or worm’s 
rotten intention. In short, her four 
earth years have not prepared her 
for clay’s desire, air’s shimmer, 
water’s oscillation, fire’s agitation. 
In short, she’s sinking 
her teeth into the green world.