On Fall and Apples

Since apples (preferrably straight off the tree or Macintosh) are one of the wonderful things about fall and since I have the surprisingly remarkable anthology, A Book of Luminous Things:

Mystic by D.H. Lawrence

They call all experience of the senses mystic, when the experience is considered.
So an apple becomes mystic when I taste in it
the summer and the snows, the wild welter of earth and the insistence of the sun.

All of which things I can surely taste in a good apple.
Though some apples taste preponderantly of water, wet and sour
and some of too much sun, brackish sweet
like lagoon-water, that has been too much sunned.

If I say I taste these things in an apple, I am called mystic, which means a liar.
The only way to eat an apple is to hog it down like a pig
and taste nothing
that is real.

But if I eat an apple, I like to eat it will all my senses awake.
Hogging it down like a pig I call the feeding of corpses.



This also makes me remember this please-will-you-miss-home email from my mother last year around this time.