The Golden Apple Rolls Downhill

Sunlight catches brass-bright skin
As perfect roundness betrays its perch
Among prayer beads and ancient texts

One nudge — perhaps a sparrow’s landing —
And paradise trembles

Down monastery steps it bounds
A golden temptation spinning free
Past saffron robes and startled cries
Of monks who’ve spent decades
Learning to still their hearts

“Catch it!” cries Brother Chen
Breaking noble silence
As sandals slap stone
And dignity tumbles like autumn leaves

Down, down through the temple garden
Where carefully raked sand
Erupts in footprints
As five, no, seven holy men
Stumble-chase the gleaming troublemaker

Past the meditation pond
(Three splashes, two curses,
One impromptu baptism)
Through the sacred grove
Where enlightenment must wait
For another day

Until at last it nestles
In a bed of moss
Below the monastery walls
Where a child finds it
And takes a bite

The monks, disheveled, panting,
Watch juice trickle down her chin
As she grins up at them

And the universe whispers
Its favorite joke:
Chaos is gravity’s best friend