This tree stands by me as it guards me from gravity’s strong force
Such as my parents do, I stand here
My small blue shoes stroke into the faded dirt as the carriage wheels once did
The apples lay on the ground
They look as dead as I do, but they are just as alive as I am

My presence is here as the young children trot by
I am not like the others in this small American town
For some call me the little philosopher
I ponder day and night over my existence
Yet this apple tree keeps me in this one spot

If this tree could come alive and sweep me off my feet
I would go along waving my blond curls into the cold wind
Observing the world from a different perspective
With the same apple in my hand
I am not like the others in this small American town