Sonnet #66

To make the best fruit, the apples and pears

Must have their young branches weighed down

The branches shoot up too straight, can't bear

To turn their tips away from precious sun

But they must, or else the fruit will be thin

It will hang at odd angles, fall off, rot

When moisture can't be blown away by wind

In those tight clumps against the stalk, the roots

Will feed the tree, and only leaves will grow

Tall, brittle branches, little fruit, so bend

The young shoots down, hold them low

Until they harden there. Hardship sends

the branches freedom to create, pruning applies

It is the cut and twisting that births the apples