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The Apple Tree
by Louis McKee

Just two or three steps from the porch
you can see behind the house
where it is flat and empty until stones
pile up into hills, and the only thing
between you and them is the crazy
apple tree standing up and leaning
as though it were making a point,
pounding a fist onto a desk top,
or pointing -- sticking out one of those
fiery index fingers that burn the words
on your tongue, and that is how
you feel this morning, a white sun
like a soft lamp over the blue hills,
and this tree full of argument,
conviction, and blood red apples,
and who are you to argue, expecting
nothing more than fresh air
but getting this: a new day, the sweet
promise of ripe fruit, and something
beyond the stones worth looking for.

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