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.
Finished.

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.
Poised.

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