Apple trees are practically divinities
Inspired by asakiyume and sovay, but veering, perhaps, a bit from the original thought:
She came out of the trees at sunset, and I never did figure if her golden gown was made of shimmering silk or the light of the setting sun itself. Her hair and skin, some might say, was nothing worth mentioning, just brown. But such a brown as I only ever saw in the bark of the apple trees. It was the brown of cool shade and sweet pollen, the color of hiding with a book in the branches while the bark pressed shapes into your cheek as you fell asleep instead of reading, the sound of bumblebees in your ear.
But it was the green of her eyes that I remember the most. If I looked too deep, I was afraid I would see the leaves unfurling in their depths.
I had to stop myself from looking too deep.
She handed me an apple, the skin the color of her lips, and I had to push down thoughts of those lips on my cheek, neck, down my arm, pressing in the soft skin under my wrist. Me, in my drab sundress the color of a winter sky. How could I compare to her?
I bit into the apple anyway. I was surprised at its sweetness, the juice just that right amount of tart to balance the crisp sensation of my teeth parting the flesh of the sweet fruit.
I did not expect the glance from her leaf-green eyes, or the hand that took mine, tugging me past the boundary of trees into the apple grove. I did not expect the juice, still sticky on my lips, to remind me of other sticky-sweet things. I did not expect her to help me remember.
Some say an apple was the fall of Eve. I say it was the redemption.
She came out of the trees at sunset, and I never did figure if her golden gown was made of shimmering silk or the light of the setting sun itself. Her hair and skin, some might say, was nothing worth mentioning, just brown. But such a brown as I only ever saw in the bark of the apple trees. It was the brown of cool shade and sweet pollen, the color of hiding with a book in the branches while the bark pressed shapes into your cheek as you fell asleep instead of reading, the sound of bumblebees in your ear.
But it was the green of her eyes that I remember the most. If I looked too deep, I was afraid I would see the leaves unfurling in their depths.
I had to stop myself from looking too deep.
She handed me an apple, the skin the color of her lips, and I had to push down thoughts of those lips on my cheek, neck, down my arm, pressing in the soft skin under my wrist. Me, in my drab sundress the color of a winter sky. How could I compare to her?
I bit into the apple anyway. I was surprised at its sweetness, the juice just that right amount of tart to balance the crisp sensation of my teeth parting the flesh of the sweet fruit.
I did not expect the glance from her leaf-green eyes, or the hand that took mine, tugging me past the boundary of trees into the apple grove. I did not expect the juice, still sticky on my lips, to remind me of other sticky-sweet things. I did not expect her to help me remember.
Some say an apple was the fall of Eve. I say it was the redemption.