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A barely changed Emily Dickinson poem about the soul ripening like an apple.

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A solemn sound within my soul
to feel itself get ripe
and hang all gold while higher up
the maker's ladders stop

And in the orchard far below
you feel your heartbeat drop

Wonderful to feel the day
still reddening the cheek
that you thought was finished, cool of eye
and careful at his work

He shifts the stem a little
to give your core a look

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Tom Ross Colorado Springs, Colorado

Music, art, poetry spoken here!

As E Dickinson says:

Nature is what we know
but have no art to say
so impotent our wisdom is
to her simplicity

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