Apples fall from the tree

behind the Swiss chalet.

They fall through me as

shadows climb and crest

Wetterhorn Mountain,

crowned by rocky horns

borne from Michelangelo's

"Moses." Horns of brilliance

and power, horns of shining

light that passes through me

into the shadows of the sun-stained

mountain, whose horns turn,

twist and fall through me

into the scattered piles

of apples plopping

onto the neon green grass.

Apples tumble through me

as I pass into the silence

within the silence that beckons

from the mountaintops. I am

the fruit of darkness and light,

fruit of the horn of the divine,

a son of Moses seeking exodus

beneath this rocky band of ragged peaks.

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