Theresa Senato Edwards
APPLE TREES AT PEACH HILL PARK
We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are. ∞ Anais Nin
It’s said horizontal tree trunks grow
like branches. The only course for them
to follow the ground.
Silent, right-angled roots lodged in
weeds force a crippling—
like heavy arthritic fingers of gods.
My life, too, edges along a splayed landscape.
My sons, standing branches rooted in my
sloping growth and decay. When the fruit ripens,
apples scrape against their own branches, air
tight around them, an aching movement a
tree endures like a worried mother.
There’s difficulty in growing. Still the earth
accepts the seeds no matter the future, the way
a hill tilled for one fruit grows another.
I tell my sons life is adaptation, an angled
trunk near ground, which never falls but feels
the failings. They form their own way.