The orchard at the end of the lane is nothing like the big commercial operations. The old boy who lives there plants only heirloom varieties. Their skins are works of art, perfect blends of red, green and yellow in patterns my hand could never paint. But better than that, they aren't shiny. Their sizes are as uneven as beach pebbles and you can't predict the flavour unless you know the variety. They have brown spots and the occasional worm – they're real apples. They don't shine since they aren't coated with wax, and in their dullness I feel safe enough to take a bite. No chemicals, no trucking between states, just fruit right off the tree.
There is nothing mathematical about the growth of my apple trees, or at least I challenge anyone to prove otherwise. The boughs twist like a bunch of pipe-cleaners after a pre-K class has been at them. True, they seek the light in their upturned wine glass shape, but in their own chaotic way. Were it not for pruning they would be more unruly still with small off shoots determined to grow fruits they could not support. They'd look more like my bed-head in the mornings than trees. Even with my pruning the orchard is all the more beautiful for its wildness, though I thank God daily they must stay in the neat rows in which they were planted.
Under the sunrise, the apples glowed more rosy than they do in the dayshine. The branches of each tree spread out as if so proud of the bounty they brought and sweetness given within each one. It was a party of colours, of chaos and order, of a beauty that sprung from simple seeds blessed with mud and rain.