Love does not rule lovers from a throne.
It is far more humble, the sapling within the trunk.
Even the apple at the top of the tree knows better.
Its leaves wake and quiver and turn toward the morning light.
The higher a picker climbs, the more unsteady his ladder.
The more patient the ripening, the sweeter the fall of the apple.
Love not only reaches with extremities toward a beckoning sun,
but it is drawn from the dark earthbound roots that first knew the grace of light.
Relentless roots will split rock and lift high edifices
in their quest to find the nourishment for its flowering fruit and leaf.
And yet roots wither from thirsting leaves not lifted toward the sky
by limbs which absorb the relentless winds and steady the tree.
High up in the canopy where the colors deepen, fragrance releases and pollen drifts.
Low to the earth, in symbiosis, lovers carry waiting baskets and bellies filled with apples.
Apple cider to the soul.