The Fruit
Independence
The tree stood alone. Its countenance grew greener each day. Its presence brought peace to the hill, but its full glory was still to come. The joy it would bring to the traveler, the pride it would bring to the town.
It must obey time, like the rest. But must it rest until its time? To bear fruit now was unwise. It went against season. It would fall to the ground and rot for lack of expectation. But when fruit came, might its arrival be more glorious if its foliage was in full array?
It was not created this way. The ideas were its own. New ideas, new ways, branching off from all before it. How it would outshine them all! Why had it complied with the incessant cycles of the past? Now it would be free.
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It set its course, and it unfurled its green while others waited. Its leaves were large and healthy. All nourishment went to gilding the luscious idol of itself.
It became what it desired. It stood out, it was noticed, it was beautiful.
Its beauty belied its barrenness. Its deceitful branches held not even the first of its fruit. And one day a man pierced the illusion and revealed it in all its falseness.
Cursed, it shriveled and died. The moist, thick leaves fell and crumbled into earth. The rest soon followed.
It was trampled into nothing. The dust it became bore more fruit than it. Its vibrance was forgotten, its pretenses of fruit were remembered.
It had become the creation it longed to be, far inferior to the design of its Creator.
