In the taste

of this sour apple

is the bee

making pictures

of honey. First

there's a branch

toward the middle of a

not-tall tree. Then a bud

and a not-pink, not-

white flower--a cup

for itself, the bee.

Then a hard green

apple-thumb is round

and redder. Success!

But still green.

I come eat it. I miss

my place on the tree.

I miss the sun

on my hand.

I miss the tree.