A woman holding a golden apple in her palms 
has crossed the boundary, uncertain yet hopeful.

She waits there, glances back at stony ground—scenes
when her desire was too held in check, diminishing.

Now, with this globe she’s grasping, something beckons;
its small oval assurance, a piquant promise of juiciness

no one shall deny. She dares a smile at signs of surrender
within her. Packed precariously about a soft-spiky seed.