My days are spent among the trees.
I've seen them all; I watched them grow
and blossom through the passing years.
I know their names—both first and last;
I know the trials of their past,
where each scar came and how it came
and how they blossomed through such pains.
They each belong to their own kind:
a few have fruit, a few are pine,
and others fan me with their leaves.
I've touched a handful, climbed their limbs,
but tumbled back eventually
while bearing scars along the way.
But you—you are an apple tree—
the only one within the wood.
Your fruit is not infected with
the worms of neighbors, blemished skin,
nor any kind of sin or stain;
it glistens in the morning dew
and makes my mouth as dry as sand.
I will not climb your branches, though—
it is not time. Your fruit is not
in season yet. But soon, I shall
enjoy it with a happy hand
and taste the sweetness, smell the scent,
and live beneath your outstretched arms.
currently listening to: My Boy Builds Coffins by Florence + The Machine