I came upon an apple tree
with twisted boughs mid-fruiting.
Its laden limbs drooping
toward the dew-drenched ground.
The tree seemed rather burdened
by the weight of its sweet hoard,
but when I looked upon its base,
I found not a single orb.
Intrigued, I stepped in closer
to realize a shocking sight:
the apples pulling down its arms
were blighted far past ripe.
“Let go of them!”
I told the tree,
who loomed silent upon me.
“Don’t you know your apples
have gone brown and soft from rotting?”
The tree stood unregarding,
so I shook its trunk quite viciously,
expecting a shower of fermented red.
But still the tree held onto every
ounce of ruddy flesh.
“Why won’t you let them go?”
I asked, expecting no reply,
but with a rush of autumn wind,
the tree did tiredly sigh.
“I fear that I won’t fruit again.
I fear this is my last
year of giving plenty, so
I cling to my bright stash.
I know my gifts are rotting
upon my creaking form,
but I live in fear to drop them
lest I become no more
than firewood next fall,
destined for the axe.
So I guard my fruit
and droop resolute
in fear of being lashed.”
I thought on this,
then reached up to pluck
a mushy sugar globe.
“Next year it may be shade you give,
the next fuel for the stove;
that does not make you useless though,
for we all must face the time
when our purpose shifts
and we must admit
we’re no longer in our prime.
So drop your load
and feel the breeze;
be light in your last days.
We cannot cling to
what we were,
the fruits of life,
a phase.”
pm poetry 