The First Apple*

Despite being poor,
How You ,
Would take me to your lap,
And that maid
Who always stood by you,
That fruitseller,
Who had been your friend,
How would bring fruits
For us,
You and me,
Mother,
See, how by thy bless,

Guiseppe had painted Truth
So with ease,
His paint brush
How caught the three,

You, me as if in your arms,
And that fruit seller friend of Yours
Who would come,
Knocking at thy doors,
Come shine, come pours,

She would just come,
Loving You,
Mother,
And your Holy Babe,
In Your Arms,

Guiseppe must have felt You,
Mother, in his Eyes,
Perhaps, his eyes
Always had those drops
Of Happy tears,

Finding You thus,

How You had arrived
In His Paint Brush.

{*Note: loosely based upon a painting by Guiseppe Magni.
#FirstApple: title of the poem/scribbling is inspired by the title of the painting.}