Bearing Fruit

If hope grew on trees
It would bud early
And ripen quickly
It would be blessed enough to spring from the evergreen
Fortunate enough to not be seasonal
The scent is strong and comforting
As it wafts in the wind, drawing those hungry for encouragement
Faith
There are knee high young who pick day by day
Enough for just the moment
The bent elderly who carry away a bushel full
To bake and preserve
Those most energetic reach higher and higher
To pick from the top
Swinging their legs over the sturdy branches
Calling down to their companions to catch their rewards
It could be picked from the lower limbs
But these would fall first
Rotting by the next day’s end
longevity increases with each branch’s escalation
Only reached by those most willing
And committed to obtaining the ripest piece
I’ve picked hope from the shade of the tree
When it has met it’s end and has broken from its stem
Or the abandoned one that has dropped from a basket, left forgotten by its owner
It has rolled out from the sun into the soft green underbelly of the trunk
I have found it when it was spotted brown and dented from the fall
When the worms have broken the skin
And burrowed to the seed
When the last bit of life shrank from the core
I have tried to cut away the soft spots
And eat what little remained firm
When it was much too sweet
Or not sweet enough
And I have had to toss most of it away
For the birds to pick over
Or the cars to run over
For the seed to sink into the soil
With the chance of sprouting into another hope tree in a year or two
Too late for today’s need
I have never climbed high enough to truly enjoy the sweetness of hope at it’s finest
I have never tasted to see that it was worth the effort

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