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.
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.