I think of an apple tree,
In the back of my garden.
Planted by my thrice-times father,
Before i was alive.
It has stood for decades,
Stoic against the seasons.
While the sun sows its pattern,
In a woven cotton sky.
For the tree life is not the same,
It lives longer than we may dream,
And it sleeps in winter,
Only to wake next spring.
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