By Robert Nicholl
In a corner of my garden,
a young apple tree stands straight and round
in its perfect shape.
But just to the north, is the old apple tree.
This elder has been beaten by storms,
parched by the summer sun, and spent years
being tormented by squirrels and deer.
Its shape leans to one side,
part of it sheared off years ago.
It remains firmly in the ground, but slanted south,
as if reaching for every drop of sunlight it can get.
The blossoms are not timid.
They spring forward each year,
calling out to the bees for attention.
The fruit it produces is crisp and sweet,
like the wisdom of its many years
has actually mixed itself into the sugar,
the pale green skin encasing everything the tree knows.
Though it is an old tree,
it still has so much more to give
to those that depend on it,
and it is a sight when it bursts alive
early each year.
About the Author:
Robert Nicholl is a homesteader living in the Finger Lakes region of New York. A fine arts painter, father, and amateur astronomer, he now cultivates both gardens and verses, finding poetry in the daily rhythms of tending the land. When not writing, he can be found in his apple orchard or turning compost with a notepad nearby.