'The last apple' by Amanda Headley-White

On my way to bed,

Searching for a poem,

But found an apple instead.

Yearned all day for apples,

My nightly, sprightly fix,

And this the last,

Forgotten in my cluttered drawer,

Gone to scarlet, sepia, ochre, umber,

Sap green brown bruised and more.

The last apple,

Holding like all apples hold inside,

A perfect secret star.

I cut it with a clandestine knife,

In a midnight kitchen.

And now I'll eat my apple,

I've found a poem inside.

And in the dark, divine slice after divine slice,

Into me this last apple, this poem will slide.