Every April, I am troubled by the same worry-spring may not come this year. The scenery looks dull, and the hills, sky and forest form a single gray, just like the light colors painted on the canvas by artists before their masterpieces. My spirit declined, like an April snowfall when I first came to Maine 15 years ago. "Wait and see," a neighbor suggested. "You will wake up one morning, and spring is coming." Look, on May 3rd that year, when I woke up, I saw an amazing piece of green, almost like electricity, as if spring simply pressed a switch. Hills, skies and forests reveal their purples, blues and greens. The leaves spread out, the goldfinch came to the feeding place, and the daffodils rushed to heaven.
Then the old apple tree. It is located on an undeveloped land near my home. It belongs to no one, so it belongs to everyone. The dark twisted branches of this tree stretch freely without pruning. It is free and open every spring, and the air is full of the smell of apples. When I rolled down the window and drove by, it gave me the feeling of moving in another world, just like a child on a water slide.
Until last year, I thought I was the only one who knew about this tree. Then one day, in a spring madness, I took a pruning shears and cut off some wrong branches. Hardly had I got under the tree when the neighbors opened the window and walked into the porch. I hardly know these people and seldom talk to them, but it's like I walked into their private garden uninvited.
My mobile home neighbor was the first to speak. "You won't cut it down, will you?" She asked anxiously. When I cut off a branch, another neighbor flinched. "Don't kill it now," he warned.
Soon, half the neighbors joined me under the apple tree. It suddenly occurred to me that I have lived there for five years, and I didn't know the names of these people until now, what they do for a living and how they spend the winter. It's like an old apple tree gathering us under its branches for the dual purpose of getting to know each other and sharing miracles. I can't help recalling Robert Frost's words:
Trees in bud
Shade nature and become a summer forest.
One thawing leads to another thawing. Just a few days ago, I saw one of my neighbors in the local shop. He said that the recent winter was particularly long, and he complained that he had never seen anyone near us or talked to them. Then he looked at me and said, "We need to prune that apple tree again."
Every April, I am always troubled by a worry that I may not come this spring. The surrounding weather is cold, and the hills, sky and forest are all gray, just like a faint color painted on the canvas by a watercolor painter before completing his masterpiece. I feel depressed, just like 15 years ago when I first came to Maine to see the snow. "Wait and see," a neighbor suggested. "Maybe one day you wake up in the morning and spring will come quietly." Sure enough, on May 3 of that year, when I woke up, there was a green welcoming scene outside, which made me dumbfounded-spring was like being controlled by a switch and coming at the press of a button. Purple hills, blue skies, green forests, colorful, leaves stretched, yellowbirds foraged, and daffodils also competed to grow.
There is an old apple tree, which grows on the wasteland near my home. It belongs to no one, so it belongs to everyone. The black branches of this tree are rampant because no one prunes them. Every spring, the trees are full of blooming flowers, and even the air is filled with the smell of apples. When I drove by with the window open, it was like entering another world, like a child on a water slide.
Until last year, I thought I was the only one who realized the existence of this tree. Then one day, when the spring was full, I picked up the pruning machine and pruning shears on a whim and went straight to the apple tree to get rid of some extra branches. Hardly had I stood under the tree when a neighbor opened the window or went to the porch. I hardly know these people and seldom talk to them, but it's like I broke into their private garden without authorization.
A neighbor living in a trailer first said, "You won't cut it down, will you?" She asked anxiously. When I cut off a branch, another neighbor trembled with love. "Hey, don't kill it." He warned.
After a while, half the neighbors came running and stood under the apple tree with me. I suddenly realized that I have lived here for five years, but I didn't know the names of these people until now. I knew their livelihood and how to spend the winter. This old apple tree beckons us under its trunk, which seems to have a dual purpose: let us know each other and enjoy the beauty of nature. At this point, I can't help but think of Robert Frost's poem:
Green is hidden in the claustrophobic buds of trees in spring.
It will soon grow into a shady Xia Shu.
Harmonious communication has made a good start. Just a few days ago, I saw a neighbor in a nearby shop. He said that winter was particularly long and lamented that he could not meet and talk with his neighbors. Then he looked at me and said, "We should trim that apple tree again."