The apple never falls far from the tree,
and I believe
(i must believe)
That my fruit is infinitely better,
and sweeter,
than the old.
If you say the fruit must be picked, why shilly-shally on the way?
Tristan and Iseult.
The bittersweet tradition of love found and lost
and found again in the tangled embrace of hazel and honeysuckle.
How run my chances at the growth of either?
Gender:
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