A sixty-five year-old apple tree is growing in my front yard. It stands perfectly centered in between my house, and my detached two-car garage. The base of its trunk leaves the ground at a slight angle, giving the impression that it's leaning forward. The surrounding ground is un-even and bumpy with roots weaving in and out of the earth, as if they are seeking a breath of fresh air. Unlike the rough and deeply grooved surface usually associated with trees; my tree's bark is smoother, and pimple like with sections scaling off in sheets. The actual trunk is only eight feet tall, and not very wide, but the height and span of the branches shoot out twice that size, making it top heavy. Although not an enormous tree, it dominates the nearby scenery. As the oldest and wisest vegetation, it demands seniority from the surrounding landscape. Over the course of one year, my apple tree takes on multiple faces, demonstrating the circle of life.
             During the winter months, the apple tree is gray and lifeless. Having been stripped of all leaves, its limbs are barren and jagged. Frozen in place, they stiffly poke out into the air, and are reluctant to sway even for a harsh winter wind. The tree appears dry and brittle. The birds no longer favor it for shelter. They have abandoned their previous home for the pine trees on my neighbor's property. The tree elicits a cold, and sad feeling. It is physically present, yet somehow absent at the same time. Unlike death, this is a temporary state. The tree remains silent and still during this brief hibernation.
             As the season shifts into spring, the apple tree slowly comes back to life. Previous monotones of gray change to various shades of vivid color. Branches pregnant with bright green buds announce its return. It extends its appendages into the gentle breezes, as if stretching from a long nap. Eager to gain strength, thirsty roots drink springtime showers from the warming gro
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