Bushel of Apples

There are times when I feel like a bushel of apples. All the parts are neatly packed within the bushel. Suddenly, the bushel is tipped upside down and parts of me fall, spill and bounce out. At first I feel completely out of control and scattered about. Then I slowly look around and realize that everything I still need is still there, although strewn all over.

As I gather myself together, I notice: parts are bruised and I set them aside to heal; parts contain worms and are thrown away; parts of me are not yet ready to be in the bushel and are set on a window sill for the sun to nurture. The most select, complete and healthy apples are then chosen to fill the bushel and make me whole again.

If the bushel hadn't tipped, the bruised apples would have festered, the worms would have multiplied eating the immature apples. Eventually the healthy ripe apples would have rotted or been eaten.

To be a whole healthy bushel of apples, sometimes I need to upset the basket to sort out the bad apples, before they consume me.

About this poem -

I wrote this poem many years ago and still find in it an important reminder to tip the apple cart every now and then. I was honored the first time it was performed on stage by a brilliant artist, Ms. Diane Hill, during her one woman show "In Light We Grow." Now go out there and upset your cart.
Kathy