Three apple trees
in an old orchard,
in a field overgrown.
Gnarly, spindly, broken branches,
lichen topped like an ill-fitting toupee.
Summers of bounty,
seasons of neglect.
Only deer pick the fruit;
an occasional driver glances.
In their silhouettes, beauty,
memory in shadows,
witness to harvest.
Roots dug in—
struggle, to bear.
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