They were big and
Perfectly mottled red
But inside
A network of worm tunnels
Decayed in criss-crossing
Brown threads.
Still, I washed and peeled,
Painstakingly exhumed the
Worm roads
Until the good parts
Shone like cut gems,
Faceted and fragrant with
Torn apple skin.
There, mid-paring,
I realized I could do
To the glory of God,
Even this too.
The picking and peeling,
Taking joy in their fallishness–
The red roundness and
The shapes of their glistening facets.
There, in a kitchen
Warm with cinnamon and apple wood,
In a day growing dim,
That sacrifice of transforming,
The bad harvest
Into edible fruit,
Was also an act of worship.