Listen to the Poem
In my garden I sit and stare,
if weeds are there, do I care?
I am lost in a reverie,
focused on my apple tree.
The tree proudly waves blooming boughs,
high to caress passing clouds.
Her fruit with their rosy faces,
will go to other places.
She will lose her leaves in winter,
her bark may begin to splinter,
but her summer will come again,
and deep-rooted she will remain.
And me? I hope most sincerely,
that like the old apple tree,
I will stand firm, and tall and strong,
regardless of what comes along.