By Raynette Eitel
It is time to pick dreams like apples,
Peeling them back
To make thin, white slices
Ready to eat.
Dust the sour ones with sugar
Mounded like snow.
On the dried and shriveled,
Pour a bit of sweet wine.
Then should I hear God speak
From out of the heavens,
I shall hide beneath my pillow
And blame you for making
Me pick the apple.
