The apple trees we passed on our drive today
are more beautiful than the ones
a mile or so from our front door.
This has little to do with the leaves traced in light
or the red apples strung through them
like beads on a ball gown.
The magic in these trees comes from the idea
that they might be tended by somebody
who takes the time to thank God
for the beauty found in shadows and cobwebs,
leaves littering the yard,
bittersweet berries on a vine grown out of control, and
the joyous squeals of a child just waking to the face
of the most important person in the world.
The unknown story woven into those trees,
that old, in-need-of-paint farmhouse,
and the hill bathed in God’s light
is what these gnarled old trunks,
branches, and twigs have going for them.
It is enough for me.