Apple Trees Leaf and Apple

The gnarled and twisted began smooth and fine. Shaped in time and by circumstance, warped and wound and going deep, the roots fold themselves around obstacles, into the hard and unforgiving and there, in the dense dark, melt the edges, squeezing the experience, bring sweet water into the world.
At the ending edge of summer I will pick an apple, stretching tall and reaching, pull it off and down, that which came from the dark, the fruitless hardness. The crunch of fractured rock is there; the sweet of long days is there; a stem and smooth brown seeds in the core are there. They ask to be tossed aside. Not trashed, but tossed into the wild, into the inhospitable, onto hard, crusty soil where:
Perhaps and maybe another tree might spring. It too, if so, will start small and smooth and fine; patient and unrelenting, chip into the dense, the recalcitrant and joining the heavy with the light to lure another child grown tall; might pick a worldly globe and maybe, maybe toss into the future; hope for the next generation.