The Apprentice
Many may kneel when the Pyramids fall ; I, an apprentice of fate, Study the boulder that lurks in the plum, Ponder the bolt in the date.
My love was smiling and skipping the rope, Counting one hundred and four — Down from the ledge of a reader's retreat Tumbled a dried apple core.
Turbulent seeds in that remnant of fruit, Orchards of possible red ; All of the leafage and all of the boughs Fell on the top of her head.
Nurses and doctors are raying the bruise; Rumors are checking a score, Trying to figure the speed and the weight Shown by that infamous core.
I am not feeling as well as I was; I have the witness-box freeze ; Fate is an archer who, scorning the bow, Sobers a target with ease.
Drawn are the shades in the room of my love, Yet I have knocked on her door; Out came an answer in caretaker's cap — Fever one hundred and four.
Many may kneel when the Pyramids fall; I, an apprentice of fate, Study the plunge of the caraway seed, Ponder the bolt in the date.