I look out over the orchard.
Do you know what I see?
Trails of trees of different breeds
Whose arms reach out towards their neighbors,
Savoring the clustering, dust stirring below.
I look out past the orchard.
Do you know what I see?
One little tree, scrawny and free.
Nothing around it for yards on end,
Yet still it reaches for a friend.
Look how the lonesome tree grows some fruits
In its arms, its leaves creating suits of armor
For those yields, shields from the wind, the sun.
None of the habits of the tree have inexplicably
Subdued in its solitude.
Its fruits ripen, stipends like the orchard,
More churned out, yet the arms of the tree are turned out.
Scrawny and free, but scrawny indeed.
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