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He who would eat the fruit, must first climb the tree. But the weakest fruit falls first from the branches.

I'm about halfway up the tree. The breeze is beginning to pick up, and fruits start to fall. At first, the wormy ones, eaten from the inside out. Bleh. Next comes the sickly ones, with a darkening hue that speaks of illness and fills me with unease. No way. At last comes some good fruit, raining down like pieces of heaven on the first day of spring. An average man would be happy with any of them, and they would provide more than enough sustenance to most anyone. Not the biggest, or brightest, or sweetest, but within reach and filling. So easy, to simply release my hold and let gravity bring me to my fate.

I keep my eye on the prize, the juicy, round, red apple dangling from the highest branch. It shimmers in the morning light, broken sunbeams scattering down through the leaves. As the wind tugs the branches the leaves slide back and forth creating ripples and patterns amongst the shadows below, an intricate dance of light and darkness. It passes out of sight regularly, but I know it's still there, tempting me, tantalizing me, taunting me. I climb further. Someday. Someday soon. And still I climb...

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