fatalism & fruit farming

apples will bloom, regardless
of rocks in the dirt
or ice falling through skies
as a single stroke
lost to all singing points
bare faced
those braizers leaning into the tomorrow wind
pushing past the tooth seekers
soothsayers
holding fires and flumes
telling apples that we will bloom
regardless of rocks
only if the dirt has left
if only the single falling stroke
has left a point
marked with the bare,
born as a cleft child