We have an apple tree

and we want to farm apples, but
we want them to grow
on their own, ripely sweet
each indulgence,
made sweeter by the knowledge
that we didn’t lift a finger.

How do we cultivate?
What are we doing with
our natures?
All we seem to grow are twigs!
They need sun.
Of course, they need sun.

Maybe we aren’t apple farmers after all.

Adam Coday is a confessional poet who says “hark” and “no-no square” in casual conversation, so he stays home a lot. That’s why you never hear from him.