Beneath the branches of the apple tree,
with the sunlight streaming down in golden ribbons
and the roots knuckling into my back through the soft grass,
I think,
When did the tree grow?
I remember it,
just a few leaves on the end of a twig.
I remember it,
up to my shoulder —
But I was shorter then, too
I remember it as it is now:
tall, strong, full of leaves and,
in the springtime,
which fall away as it bears sweet fruit
But what happened in-between those times?
I don’t remember the growth itself
even as I watched, the tree seemed
Though the leaves waved in the breeze
and the branches swayed
and the snow fell off of its naked bark
I could not see it grow
yet it must have,
for here it is, grown
as I am.

2 thoughts on “Grown

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