A little green apple
fell to the ground.
A child came a-running'
'pon hearing the sound.
And grasping the treasure
in his own little fist,
He worked with his fingers,
elbow and wrist.
Until he held tightly
within his small hand.
A bit of God's goodness,
the sun'd left untanned.

April 18, 1970
By Linda A. Copp ©