Apples, by Gilbert Koh

Today my son,

not yet two,

learns a new word.

“Apple,” I say,

offering him a piece.

He listens,

then replies

slowly —

“Arr-pul”,

his first time,

the word curling

like a strange

new taste

in his mouth.

Later he will

run to the windows

calling arr-pul,

arr-pul

to the birds outside.

In the afternoon

it will rain

and he will raise

both palms

to the clouds

solemnly declaring

arr-pul, arr-pul.

Everything will be apple for the day.

In two baby hands

he will hold

a grand new word

and offer its sweet freshness

to the sky.