I remember a white dress with red satin trim
dirt caked under my fingernails, between my toes.
I was three, and you were explaining
to me why I couldn't plant an apple tree
in Florida. I couldn't understand how a place
good for growing so many other trees
couldn't grow apples. I dropped the core,
seeds and all, into the earth, in defiance of you,
and of nature. I dropped it in a cold corner
near the front of the house, and sat above that spot
all summer, sucking ixora nectar
as I waited.
No apples grew out of the earth
that fall, but that core took me into the ground,
showing me the secret to growing things unseen.
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