The apple’s core has centered on its seeds

The apple’s core has centered on its seeds.
Bees shop the tree’s drupe in spring.
The adder’s stung his kiss of awakening
and hung a hissing shingle swung with creeds.
An amber honey trickles in the mead.
The song each bird is chattering
herons on stilts and chevrons its passing.
I follow her path until I am freed.
I am born from quaternity.
Four directions turn the signpost of my soul
and map the meter of my maternity.
I’ve relinquished every goal
and handed myself over to eternity
raising my anchor to begin my troll.

~ Bob Elmendorf