Every April I am beset by the same concern-that spring might not occur this year. The landscape looks forsaken, with hills, sky and
forest forming a single graymeld, like the wash an artist paints on a canvas before the masterwork. My spirits ebb, as they did during
an April snowfall when I first came to Maine 15 years ago. "Just wait," a neithbor counseled. "You＇ll wake up one morning and spring
will just be here." Andlo, on May 3 that year I awoke to a green so startling as to be almost electric, as if spring were simply a matter of
flipping a switch. Hills, sky and forest revealed their purples, blues and green. Leaves had unfurled, goldfinches had arrived at the
feeder and daffodils were fighting their way heavenward.Then there was the old apple tree. It sits on an undeveloped lot in my
neighborhood. It belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. The tree＇s dark twisted branches sprawl in unpruned abandon. Each
spring it blossoms so profusely that the air becomes saturated with the aroma of apple. When I drive by with my windows rolled down,
it gives me the feeling of moving in another element, like a kid on a water slide.Until last year, I thought I was the only one aware of this
tree. And then one day, in a fit of spring madness, I set out with pruner and lopper to remove a few errant branches. No sooner had I
arrived under its boughs than neighbors opened their windows and stepped onto their porches. These were people I barely knew and
seldom spoke to, but it was as if I had come unbidden into their personal gardens.My mobile-home neighbor was the first to
speak."You＇re not cutting it down, are you?" Another neighbor winced as I lopped off a branch. "Don＇t kill it, now," he cautioned. Soon
half the neighborhood had joined me under the apple arbor. It struck me that I had lived there for five years and only now was learning
these people＇s names, what they did for a living and how they passed the winter. It was as if the old apple tree gathering us under its
boughs for the dual purpose of acquaintanceship and shared wonder. I couldn＇t help recalling Robert Frost＇s* words:The trees that
have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods One thaw led to another. Just the other day I saw one of my
neighbors at the local store. He remarked how this recent winter had been especially long and lamented not having seen or spoken at
length to anyone in our neighborhood. And then, recouping his thoughts, he looked at me and said, "We need to prune that apple
treeagain."
forest forming a single graymeld, like the wash an artist paints on a canvas before the masterwork. My spirits ebb, as they did during
an April snowfall when I first came to Maine 15 years ago. "Just wait," a neithbor counseled. "You＇ll wake up one morning and spring
will just be here." Andlo, on May 3 that year I awoke to a green so startling as to be almost electric, as if spring were simply a matter of
flipping a switch. Hills, sky and forest revealed their purples, blues and green. Leaves had unfurled, goldfinches had arrived at the
feeder and daffodils were fighting their way heavenward.Then there was the old apple tree. It sits on an undeveloped lot in my
neighborhood. It belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. The tree＇s dark twisted branches sprawl in unpruned abandon. Each
spring it blossoms so profusely that the air becomes saturated with the aroma of apple. When I drive by with my windows rolled down,
it gives me the feeling of moving in another element, like a kid on a water slide.Until last year, I thought I was the only one aware of this
tree. And then one day, in a fit of spring madness, I set out with pruner and lopper to remove a few errant branches. No sooner had I
arrived under its boughs than neighbors opened their windows and stepped onto their porches. These were people I barely knew and
seldom spoke to, but it was as if I had come unbidden into their personal gardens.My mobile-home neighbor was the first to
speak."You＇re not cutting it down, are you?" Another neighbor winced as I lopped off a branch. "Don＇t kill it, now," he cautioned. Soon
half the neighborhood had joined me under the apple arbor. It struck me that I had lived there for five years and only now was learning
these people＇s names, what they did for a living and how they passed the winter. It was as if the old apple tree gathering us under its
boughs for the dual purpose of acquaintanceship and shared wonder. I couldn＇t help recalling Robert Frost＇s* words:The trees that
have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods One thaw led to another. Just the other day I saw one of my
neighbors at the local store. He remarked how this recent winter had been especially long and lamented not having seen or spoken at
length to anyone in our neighborhood. And then, recouping his thoughts, he looked at me and said, "We need to prune that apple
treeagain."