Flight of the Tree
I once trod through a gravel path
on a cold, dry evening.
Green grass waving on the earth,
and the sun losing it's meaning.
With a sudden cold push from the sky
in the fading twilight ;
a solitary apple tree far away would give a rustling sigh,
and try to liberate it's green chattel, to the wintry might.
But none would detach to make the load lighten ;
none dropped to the ground, all but one.
Green and smooth, the rest would ripen,
yet the single apple would roll under the dying sun.
The apples high up would never want to be free,
the fallen one would forever be a little green.
But the next gust would embrace the tree,
and uproot all, and fly them to the ravine.
The solus apple would lay gathering dust,
till I would come by it, and consume it to the core,
and spit the seeds to the ground in disgust,
where it would burgeon stouter that before.
Such is life, for fauna or flora.
The fallen one would fall, for the tree to again thrive,
and create an everlasting serene aura,
which would be inconceivable, had the apple not chosen strife.