Standing,
slicing,
contemplating
how this crisp apple
doesn’t resemble apple blossoms,
or apple trees,
or even last year’s windfallen fruit rotting underneath,
yet the potential for these
are right there
in the seeds scattered
on a kitchen cutting board.

Scraping, haphazard,
into the compost bowl,
mindful of gaps that surface
between the ways
I want to be,
but am.

The way my irritation
over a stranger’s rudeness at the supermarket
bears no resemblance
to my aspirations of love and tenderness for the world.

The way my patience wears thin with others
when I’ve procrastinated and now need them to rush,
my uncharitable reactions to other drivers
on long commutes in traffic,
my lack of curiosity when presented with
an opposing view,
all falling short of
the poetry
my soul sings in the woods.

My own contradictions and hypocrisy
on display,
so unlike
the beautiful way of being
I wish to embody.

It bears considering
what potential I’m cultivating,
allowing to germinate,
and grow.