An apple

An apple falls to ground from an old apple tree
and it has no wish to be an orange or a pear
or red when it is green or green when it is red
because little apples that fall from apple trees
know they simply are what they're meant to be.

They do not land with a thud in the middle of a pool
of mixed up DNA and crossed personalities
untutored in the art of reaching solid ground
and unschooled in the means of reinventing themselves.

They simply lie there quietly waiting for the hand of fate
to ravenously bite and chew from the outer in
and haphazardly and unconcernedly
throw the core away.

There must be a moral to the story of an apple
but words of wisdom fail when I'm in a pool
trying desperately to reach a solid base
while knowing that the hand of fate
treats everything and everyone
with the same degree of ... taste!