Lonely Isaac, waiting there
below the tree with downcast eyes
(Isaac has the eyes, and not the tree)
miserably unaware
incapable of bright surprise
(and blinded to the joys of poetry).
Look above you, you may find
soaring upwards, light as air
(don't believe a word of what I say)
apples of a better kind
flying high without a care
ripening in the glorious light of day.

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