Apple Picking Time

I sat beneath the apple tree,
had sketching pad upon my knee,
took colored pencils, pad in hand
to draw the beauty I could see.

Blunt pencil points I'd soon restored;
both eyes fixed on the laden tree,
I found the perfect subject worthy
of that day's pleasant drawing spree.

From drooping limbs smiled ripened fruit,
but on my pad just one crude sphere
became the globe that shone in red
and filled my mind and heart with cheer.

When done, I plucked my crisp reward,
the apple that had served as sitter,
turned it—before my crunching bite—
and then I saw the wormy critter—

a wormhole—and the alien head
peering from the tempting apple’s rind
contracting—stretching—contracting . . .
that worm bored deep into my mind

and I felt it’s setae’s tickle,
and I giggled, giggled, giggled,
imagining those tickling feet
of the worm that wriggled—wriggled.

Again, it’s apple picking time;
deep in my throat I feel the tickle
of all those tiny bristle feet
that make me giggle, giggle, giggle.