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.



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