Rootless

I’ve ripened in the rough for quite some time,
beside an orchard where the scent of lush
fertility belies the sudden rush
of woeful winter’s unrelenting rime,
which soon will steal the succor of the dew.
Amidst these blades I sometimes catch a peek
of distant canopies and wonder how
I ended up here, overcome by cow
manure pies encrusted with flies that reek
so strongly, often I can’t even see.
I think about the branch I never knew
is it the one from which my tartness grew?
There is no broader breadth (it seems to me)
than that between the apple and the tree.