Sinking into the soft, freshly turned pile of earth,
My father and I take a break from digging.
The apple slides up and down my father's sweatshirt
Shiny red, reflecting the sunny day, blue sky.
The fresh dirt mixes with the hot lilacs
And sweat creating a nosegay fitting the day.
The apple is inspected, its shine approved,
A hand slides into a worn pocket
Returning to the sunshine with a small knife.
The blade clicks open, inspected and also approved,
Assumes the well known position in the hand.
The small blade cleaves the redness exposing white clean flesh.
The crimson curl grows.
A child knows no more of god.
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