Stories in Our Hearts

Oirbsen’s mother fed me pie,
apple from her orchards, ever-renewing,
her son’s shoulders too broad for her low-roofed cottage
“We are real,” she said, “though no tale
names us, and no tale
tells the truth, though they are all true.
Tales, like apples, grow from the ground they know.
Transplanted, they grow crooked, their fruit
less sweet, their true beauty
lost in translation. You see?”
I nodded, the sweet syrup melting on my tongue.
“We see what we see. But what we know
depends on the soil holding our roots.
My perfect fruit is an apple,
not a pomegranate. It makes a difference.”
She nodded and Oirbsen smiled.
“The heart of an apple understands – we
have stories in our hearts, fruit, leaf, and bud.”

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