All along I was the apple after all.

I thought I was the label. Blemish full of information

That increases my appreciation of the apple

Not one jot.

Apple meanwhile,

Broad, beaming and generous,

Tolerates the sticky label

With sublime serenity

Like an elephant disregarding a tic.

Busy with narrative, the tic

Is hero in his own story.

The elephant, like the apple, is

Too absorbed in being itself

To make correction.

Realising my mistake

I feel full of goodness.

My mind, entirely at peace with my apple-i-ness,

Is no longer compelled by the words on the label,

Even though I still haven’t made all of them out.

Put away the magnifying glass

And the dictionary.

All the label does is point to the apple

Like that finger pointing at the moon.