An apple tree
Sits with me
As I write its poetry
The leaves are smooth; the bark is coarse
Apples stir and cause to force
In me a gentle remorse
For the leaves have grown to red
Away from it my path does tread
And quickly to home I head
The time has past
I see at last
The tree has lost its chloroplast
The apples fallen to the ground
There are no leaves to make that sound
It's happiness gone that I found
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