The First Edge

An apple, crisp and green, held in my hand,

the sharp steel slid, across its waiting land.

No effort really, just a clean, swift cut,

the fruit fell open, split, without a rut.

And for a moment, that bright, cold gleam,

brought back the kitchen, a half-forgotten dream.

Me, small, maybe five, a butter knife held tight,

trying to cut a sandwich, with all my might.

Not just a tool, I knew then, even so young,

a thing that separates, a sharp, clear tongue.

It spoke of power, careful, dangerous intent,

the way the world could crack, or be cleanly rent.

The wet, white surface, where the apple broke,

a silent understanding, in that sudden stroke.