What was the color of the apple
when it was still the mythical center
of the world, crisp like a new paint swatch,
soft inside like the belly of a sponge?
Is it nostalgic or sentimental
when you write of how there was salt
on the table, pepper on the side,
a knuckle of bone to sweeten the broth?
The clapboard shingles were unpainted. But inside,
a staircase of beautiful lathe-turned balusters.
Where did it think it could go, rising up like that
out of the weeds and Queen Anne’s lace?