I see her standing
in her orchard,
one small pip,
shiny brown, resting
in her right hand.
All around, the trees stretch out
as far as far, and there is birdsong
and the drowsy drone of sleepy wasps.
Apple trees don’t grow true from seed.
She knows this. And the fact
that you must plant 10,000 pips
to win the prize: a tree worth keeping –
an apple worth the eating.
So, she’s half laughing at herself,
but plants it anyway,
pressing it gently
into the nurturing soil.
Then waiting. She has time.
Warming it with the wild sunshine
of her joy. Watering it
with the soft raindrops of her love.
Dreaming that this could be the one
the tree that grows the perfect orb –
green flecked, and russet,
maybe clouded, wet with dew,
smelling of wholesomeness.
An apple to be held gently
and with respect – the flesh
of apples bruises easily –
an apple to be shared,
sweet as laughter,
with a tang of something longed for.
An apple to be loved.
I see her sitting, waiting,
in her orchard, patient
as eternity. Trees stretch out
all around. Blossom glints white
here, see, and there, shining
in the great darkness of infinity.
NaPoWriMo has reached day 19, and is asking for a creation myth. I hope this works as one.