The apple trees are old and beautiful. They cast an ethereal vibrance through the intense white of their blossoms yet in their tired trunks and branches is a graceful majesty suggesting peaceful surrender in their old age.
Two old apple trees decorate each side of the path to my cabin. The white leaves of their blossoms rest on the stones and dirt after their journey down driven by forceful gusts of wind and nights of heavy rain. The overcast sky stifles the light so the white on the ground jumps and catches my eye as if glitter was embedded to guide my way home.
Each pass by their side encourages me to imagine. I imagine pursuing a frog through the small stream or stumbling upon a beaver’s den on the pond, perhaps a magic lamppost or tiny house; mysteries and adventures that rejuvenate a meandering sense of wonder to keep me company while I plant tomatoes and pour fermented nettle tea into the sprayer attached to the diesel powered tractor.