old apple old soul
Some say I have surrendered to the weather.
I have become distorted.
Bent low to the ground.
My fruit seems to have withered and died away.
I appear old and barren.
But I am in the winter of my soul.
My distortion is my splendor.
I shall bend further still.
My fruit bore seeds, and they have littered the earth.
I have become wise and spacious.