Leaves of the Apple Trees

Rustled in the cold breeze

A gentle cold breeze stirred the leaves, Of the several apple trees. The bright red apples, Gently moved on the branches. Apples so red and ripe, Waited to fall off that tree, Apples so red and ripe, It was their opportunity, To move away from the tree. The freedom to break away, From the tree and the swaying branches, A strong wind began to blow, Moving the tree, to and fro. The apples began to fall, To roll away on the earth, To be picked up and collected, To be served on a large plate, The apples had met their fate.

The apples from that tree, Decided to fall and break away, Some rolled into a stream, It was not the final dream. Some apples lay silently in the mud, These fruits were as red as blood. There the blood-red apples silently lay, Slowly moving towards slow decay. The seeds began to sprout, New saplings found their way out. A new apple tree looked up at the sun, The cycle of life had begun. A gentle cold breeze stirred the leaves, Of the several apple trees. The bright red apples, Gently moved on the branches. Apples so red and ripe, Waited to fall off that tree, Apples so red and ripe, It was their opportunity, To move away from the tree.

Be Open Says;

So pleased to present you 1 of Be Open Golden Stories created by: Anthi Psomiadou

Approved by Be Open’s Editors: A Shayens Abran & Rhonda Marrone