Cultivation

There was a time when children measured their age by the height of the apple tree planted at their birth. One of them never stopped growing—the tree or the child? Towering over the rest of us, thick skinned and skinned knees. It isn’t my fault that we confused the one for the other, standing right next to each other you could hardly tell the difference, gnarled hair and anxious blossoms. At the moment of conception, the apple seed feel down into the soil. Nine moths later the tender green shoot poked its way above ground, wriggling fingers and toes. Each flourished, leaning longingly towards the sun, swaying timorous shivers in the rain. Which one discovered first the capacity to send blossoms shooting from fingertips, unfolding pink and soft into warm breathed air? Which one developed the firm small fruits bitter at first, growing slowly in size and confidence? Which one grew itself around the wound accidentally attained one day, a rough bark of scar tissue following the contours of agitated flesh? And which one, when you place your ear to the torso, provides the faintest echo of vibrant sap coursing through veins?