Here is a poem.
The glass apple’s skin stretches and sighs
in the heat after rain, deep in
the forest where the trees’s barks glisten
Melancholy has fused itself to every molecule
of air, each one an amber-pulse ‘neath
Autumn-shot leaves rustle on the
forest floor as all manner of noses
twitch at the petrichor fog
sweeping through, leaving
invisible prints on everything it touches.
The glass apple sighs once more.
Blue-green branches ache under its weight
and liberates it. A small crack dampens
in the vacuum created as every air molecule
rushes to break its momentum towards
the ground. They settle it safely
and as it rests, the glass apple’s skin
splits into immeasurable pieces.