There are two apple trees in our backyard – gnarled and weathered as apple trees should be – standing alone with their feet in the blackberry thorns and goldenrod down. I cannot say how they came to be there – perhaps they are a last remaining relic of an old orchard that might have stood here in a different time – or maybe they were wild trees sprung up from an apple core some rough and weathered pioneer tossed into the woodlands long ago, and no one has since had the heart to cut them down. I can only imagine. But somehow, these two lone trees came to be, standing like sentinels in the backyard of this little cabin on the mountain, and their sight has become to me one that is so intimately tied with a feeling of home.
Andy Goldsworthy, one of my favorite artists, has said that…
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