By Willow Streams Poem by Sophia Conway

This fruit tree does not grow that tall,
It is not laden with many fruits, sweet
And ripe, ready for the picking. It does
Not want to be picked at all but left in
A quiet corner of the orchard covered
With many blankets of white blossoms
And courted by the humble ones with
Their stripped armour of gold. It has
Short and knobbly branches, not here
For you to climb on, not here for you
To prune. It sits by the Willow stream
And has worked hard to find its peace.

Move along, gardener.

It is not here for you at all.