Top of the tree stares down
I crank my neck, with a question
“Do apples float swaying from your branches
In a descent timed to gusts of direction
This way and that angle
Oscillating between all balances?”
The apple is ripened
The sun coddled it
The branches summon the apple
“my sister, the nestled seed in your centre
Is us, the sun
And the answer”.
The tree is my big sis
And the seed has departed, it will be sufficed.
-by me, Laila Ali Haid
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