Apple Tree

Resting in an orchard, filled with green
sat a young baby apple tree, waving in the wind.
Its fruit stood tall, hanging on by their tiny stems.
But some stumbled to the ground, lost in the weeds
of the orchard, forgotten. Their lush flavors
would never be tasted, never matter.

As the tree grew, its fruits did too
reaching high toward the tip of the sky.
The young pickers, the ones out in the orchard
to just grab their bundles and leave,
wiped out the low hanging fruit, forcing
them to tumble in their buckets.

The slightly older pickers, the one who knew
the patterns of the orchard, went more carefully
through the trees, taking the middle fruit
more carefully than the young pickers, but still
swift and efficient, taking only a bit less than
the buckets would hold.

But the highest sitting fruit proved the most difficult.
Only the most experienced, oldest pickets
would climb to the top of the ladder, taking each apple
delicately, as if it were their sole child.
These pickers would bring in the least, however
the orchard owner loved them.
For each apple was luscious and red and special
to not be made into a pie or mashed into a cider,
but eaten so slowly, each ounce of flavor loved.