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The tree stands fruitful.
And the apple bounces down
from ripeness to windfall and bruise.
And at the core of the fruit is the tree,
and no matter how far the apple rolls,
it still celebrates its event.
The apple may veer.
It may convert to cider,
to jam. And bob for fun,
and play roly-poly. But it’s still
in relation to, even when pressed.
Life’s cuckoo sap worms from pip to peel.
The sapling springs up,
from shadow into summer. And may
be aided by flights of wind and bird,
to branch further than reach.
A fun field day striving beyond
the attraction of the fall and tumble.
Thy invisible roots
still bind to the pull cord
tugging from earth’s labour. A first calling
that bawls a crocus announcement
that echoes back and forth from a nestling
in the lost scrumping of childhood.
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