An apple sits on the table,
quietly,
with a skin of gentle red,
a blush of morning sun.

It is still,
yet full of stories—
of springtime blossoms,
and bees drunk on nectar,
of rain’s caress,
and the kiss of a breeze.

This apple,
holding summer’s warmth,
whispers secrets of the earth,
roots deep in ancient soil,
branches reaching for the sky.

Its surface,
smooth as a lullaby,
reflects the room’s soft light,
a silent witness
to our comings and goings,
a sentinel of simple grace.

Within,
it cradles the promise of sweetness,
crisp and clean,
a burst of life
in every bite,
a testament to patience,
to growth unseen.

Time swirls around it,
a river flowing past,
but the apple remains,
anchored in its quietude,
a humble presence
on the table,
reminding us
of the beauty in stillness,
the richness in the ordinary.