I passed an orchard twice a day.
Never stopped, till I saw the way
The orchard springs to life: slender, small,
Tender greens with pink-milk petals.
But up close, they looked more stumps than trees—
With sawed-off arms and tortured knees—
Like headless, scarred, and stymied men.
I wondered how they drew me in.
Had I not seen the crippling care,
Not understood I’d find more there
Than simple, pleasing, youthful joy—
The things that bend and we bend for?
I thought, let's not stand in rows,
Not let Them choose where the root goes,
Never let us be cut or become mute,
Not flower only for the fruit.
Let's grow with wild abandon, truly,
Just as us—to say how far.
Let's be ruthless and unruly,
Exactly who we think we are!