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These are Lady Apples - tiny-sized apples I bought at a market in Atlanta. They look like real picked apples from trees, the way they are next to the blossoms. My husband has just written a little poem, inspired by this painting:
When blossoms wither,
Apples are born
Between these contending
feelings I'm torn -
Do I rejoice
or do I mourn?
All beauty should die
to be reborn
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