I used to worry when I was a kid that if I ate the apple seeds from my apple at lunch, I would grow apples  from my arms. 

I pictured myself, going outside in the spring, feeling my arms erupting in pain from hundreds of little places where branches would sprout out, questing towards the sun, towards life.

My apple tree would grow, weighing me down until I was unable to lift my arms. I would become rooted in place, watching helplessly as I metamorphized into a plant.

Standing in one place throughout the seasons. 

Apples would bloom on my branches and my face would follow the sun. 

In the fall, my leaves would shed, exchanging their fluttering clothing for the cool blanket of winter.

I would bring shade in the summer, and delicious apple pie to those who enjoyed my labours. 

There are times now where I think how lovely it would be, to be an apple tree. 

 Juicy and fresh, tall and loved. 

Dancing in the wind with rain and snow. Basking in the sun in the spring and summer. 

Initials carved into my side, a heart present forever with lovers entwined.

Stable but constantly changing. 

Sometimes I feel sad that this isn’t what would happen with my delicious apple at lunch.