Harvest Time Melancholy

Once I found an apple,
Fallen at the bottom of a tree;
It could have followed
the laws of gravity down the hill
but, instead, it had kept near.
It had belonged to that apple tree
Before it fell to the ground,
“Finders are keepers”, I told myself,
So I picked it up as something 
that had always belonged to me.
I once owned a perfect apple,
mine in its fullest of ripeness,
with moist, fleshy sweetness
surrounding the brown seeds.
At the end of its summers and springs,
just like Isaac Newton,
I sat down for a while
and thanked the tree for the apple, 
thought about autumn and gravity,
then stood up 
and looked down the hill.

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