Nick Drake - Fruit Tree
Fame is but a fruit tree
So very unsound
It can never flourish
'till its stalk is in the ground
So men of fame
Can never find a way
'til time has flown
Far from their dying day
Forgotten while you're here
Remembered for a while
A much updated ruin
From a much outdated style
Life is but a memory
Happened long ago
Theatre full of sadness
For a long forgotten show
Seems so easy
Just to let it go on by
'til you stop and wonder
Why you never wondered why
Safe in the womb
Of an everlasting night
You find that darkness can
Give the brightest light
Safe in your place deep in the earth
That's when they'll know what you were really worth
Forgotten while you're here
Remembered for a while
A much updated ruin
From a much outdated style
Fame is but a fruit tree
So very unsound
It can never flourish
'til its stalk is in the ground
So men of fame
Can never find a way
'til time has flown
Far from their dying day
Fruit tree, Fruit tree
No one knows you but the rain and the air
Don't you worry
They'll stand and stare when you're gone
Fruit tree, Fruit tree
Open your eyes to another year
They'll all know
That you were here when you're gone
Fruit Tree -Sheepyman
We began full distribution fifteen years ago. By then, I had a lot of trees in my orchard; apples, oranges, mangos, you name it.Fame is but a fruit tree
So very unsound
It can never flourish
'till its stalk is in the ground
So men of fame
Can never find a way
'til time has flown
Far from their dying day
Forgotten while you're here
Remembered for a while
A much updated ruin
From a much outdated style
Life is but a memory
Happened long ago
Theatre full of sadness
For a long forgotten show
Seems so easy
Just to let it go on by
'til you stop and wonder
Why you never wondered why
Safe in the womb
Of an everlasting night
You find that darkness can
Give the brightest light
Safe in your place deep in the earth
That's when they'll know what you were really worth
Forgotten while you're here
Remembered for a while
A much updated ruin
From a much outdated style
Fame is but a fruit tree
So very unsound
It can never flourish
'til its stalk is in the ground
So men of fame
Can never find a way
'til time has flown
Far from their dying day
Fruit tree, Fruit tree
No one knows you but the rain and the air
Don't you worry
They'll stand and stare when you're gone
Fruit tree, Fruit tree
Open your eyes to another year
They'll all know
That you were here when you're gone
Fruit Tree -Sheepyman
The seeds of what would become the most successful plantation in the state were ones that I put in the ground. At the time, I had an eerie obsession with fruit. I planted a little fruit tree. Each day, I checked up on it. Each day, searched for fruits, watered it, untangled the branches, tried to soothe those roots that would one day become massive and gnarled. Years of labor passed me by.
The day it bore fruit was a momentous occasion for me. I literally danced on my way home. Excitement poured from every pore in my body. As I entered, I nearly forgot my girlfriend, waiting for me on the couch. She'd always wait for me when I did my check-ups.
“It bore fruit!” I yelled, practically to myself. I pulled the living room table closer as I sat down beside her and set the basket in front of us.
“That’s cool. How are they?”
“You get the first one!” I smiled like a parent watching a child open presents.
She hadn’t even looked at the basket of fruit as I’d brought it in. Almost disinterestedly, she picked one out of the basket, eyeing it for bruises or mold. I got a little nervous.
Her eyebrows rose when she took the first bite. As she had just moments ago, I pulled one out; inspected it. The flavor was truly superb. I’d never tasted something so sweet.
“You should sell this stuff!” she said, staring at the apple and biting it again.
“You serious?”
“Sure, why not?” she said, lackadaisically. Her expression altered as she realized how ridiculous the idea was.
“Well, we don’t have the money anyways.” I tried to comfort her. She’s a self-conscious person. The kind that needs lots of comforting.
I sat down, inspecting our surroundings for the first time. I’d never really taken a good look around; was always caught up in the excitement of fruit and the tree. It was pretty rickety; just a big room with two sofas for a living room, a bedroom, a pretty meager kitchen area, and a bathroom.
My eyes became fixed on the bedroom door.
“I’ll be right back.” I lifted myself, considering her ideas, and mixing them with my own.
“I’ll just come.” She started to get up, but she noticed the intensity and manner of my walk. She sat back down, “If that’s alright…”
“Come on,” I called over to her. I beckoned to her with my hand as the other opened the door.
Once we were situated in the similarly rickety bedroom, I offered to fetch her more fruit. Being as delightful as they were, it was an offer she couldn’t refuse. As we sat there, I started to consider her idea more and more.
That room was the same room where my plans all developed; my tree creating fort. I took the seeds of the fruits we’d eaten and place them in a jar. I would not rest until trees covered everything.
And cover they did.
Together, we raised all those trees. The tree of golden fruit, our first tree, was the overseer to our work. Inspecting everything. Keeping everything in order, like a taskmaster. We loved the tree, and everyday went to see it. Towering from above, the tree guided us; gave us advice on proper tree growing method. We loved the tree, and every day went to see it. The new trees it had helped us grow began to flourish; young pups turning into dogs.
Then the new trees called for attention. The more children to tend to, the less attention they got. They grew, however, and bore fruit. Then more trees. They continued growing. We had a large estate, with just a tiny shack. The trees multiplied exponentially, as did their market value. I decided to start selling.
Sales at first were slow. I was constantly in that room, devising new schemes to boost our financial situation. That room became a bed surrounded in an ocean of seed jars. But, like an old engine, things picked up speed. Soon, we were able to make upgrades to our shack, and expand our acreage. More trees. We added rooms to the house. My wife was a mother, and I was a businessman. Not much to it. Events in the household became muted and dull.
“Ugh, the stove is broken,” she called to me from the other room.
“We’ll just get a new one, forget about it.” I didn’t even look away from the paperwork I was filling out.
“Can’t you just fix it? I mean, if at all possible. Not a big deal,” she complained.
“I might be able to, but why waste the time? We’ll buy a new one.” I kept writing.
“Oh, okay then.” She sighed.
Daily life was a haze. Muddling through each day, cutting deals. No passion, no sadness, nothing. Life became a few moments a month.
“Look, umm…” she mumbled.
“What?” I looked at her.
“Well...” she trailed off. “Just forget about it.” She smiled and hugged me. “What’s up at work?”
“Everything’s okay.” I held her close for a while.
I abandoned the room for an office a few miles away. Life became a nine to five.
By then, that tree that had brought us so much joy disappeared under a sea of business deals and broken stoves. By then, my tree had grown tall, and strong. The only adult in a household of rampant children. Bored, it sat, awaiting the day when a friend might come along, and take a taste of the children it had labored so meticulously to create. For years, it sat. And for years, it was ignored. The tree’s hope began to sink.
When my son learned to listen and speak, I told him about my enterprises in the fruit business. By now we were wealthy, and our house had grown large, with space enough for banquets and guests. I explained to my son about the life I’d lived prior to his existence. This was the only time I ever thought about the tree. I remembered that room. When I found it, obscured by an expanded kitchen set, the door was held shut by a gluey dust. After much fiddling, the door slid open, and I peeked inside. Covered in dust, the room smelled like it had the day I left it. The bed was still there, covered in moth eaten papers of fruit industry monopoly schemes.
An important phone call, and the door was shut for the last time.
Our son loved the orchard when he was younger. Every day, he’d run through the thick forest of fruit smells and leaves. Innocently picking fruit and enjoying its flavor, and playing in the grass like the naïve child he was. The few times I had a chance to speak to him, all he would talk about would be the tree, the largest one, which bore fruit that tasted like heaven. I never made the connection.
“Dad! You’re here?”
“Of course, it’s Christmas!”
“Yeah, I bet this’ll be lotsa lotsa fun! We should go out to the big tree, and eat, and play in the fields after opening the presents!” He stared blankly. A wide smile crossed his face, excited by thoughts of fields and the tree.
I managed “Sounds like fun, it’s a date,” through my laughing.
It never happened.
My son grew, and as he became taller, his attachment to the trees became weaker. He forgot about them, the same way I did. But as always, life went on.
The days then began to darken. Sales got worse, and I was at work too often to remember my own son’s face. The eyes of his angelic mother reddened by the low quality picture I had of her in my office. Nothing seemed to pull me out of the haze that perpetually clouded my mind.
Then the last of the deals was made. Soon we would be statewide distributors. Sales skyrocketed; we were the “underground” fruit distributor. The “no pesticides, all natural” distributor. The teenagers ate the stuff up, literally. With the profit came the final and largest renovation to our home; a month-long undertaking. When we finally came back, each room smelled like plaster and paint. A smell that never subsided, for me.
This morning, my son came to me, telling me a tree had died. I headed over to uproot it. It looked like any other dead tree. Its roots gnarled; bark grayed by years of winter and summer; its leaves clinging to it like babies to their mothers, but to no avail. The tree was dead. As I informed the workers about their new task, it dawned on me. This was no regular tree. This was my tree. My child. My firstborn. And I’d forgotten all about it, for all these years. Now it was dead.
All those memories I’d muted at work rushed back to me. Memories of the tree I abandoned. Three years of my life poured into it, giving it life and purpose, only to be abandoned by that which loved it so much. For all those years, nobody knew my fruit tree. Alone it sat, waiting for the return of its caretaker. It wept, opening its eyes to see only shadows. A little kid every once in a while. One that grew into a man and left him, the same way his father had. The tree’s roots gnarled, out of anguish, depression, driven mad by the fame it would never have. Now it was dead.
Now it was dead, but its fruit would be remembered by time immemorial in the minds of those who would know it, deep in the chronicles of history.
-Sheep
Sorry about the...mediocrity of this story. I started it yesterday and if it weren't for <3 it would be a thousand times worse.
