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.

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