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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