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
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