Every April, I find myself troubled by the same concern—that spring might not occur this year. The landscape looks dull, with hills, sky and forest appearing gray. On May 3, 1 awoke to a green so amazing as to be almost electric, as if spring were simply a matter of pressing a switch. Hills, sky and forest revealed their purples, blues and green.
Then there was the old apple tree. It sits on an undeveloped lot in my neighborhood. It belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. The tree's dark branches stretch out in unpruned（未经修剪的）abandon.
Until last year, I thought I was the only one aware of this tree. And then one day, in a bit of spring madness, I set out to prune（修剪）a few disorderly branches. No sooner had I arrived under the tree than neighbors opened their windows and stepped onto their porches（门廊）.
These were people I barely knew, but it was as if I had come uninvited into their personal gardens. My mobile-home neighbor was the first to speak. "You're not going to cut it down, are you?" she asked anxiously.
Soon, half the neighborhood joined me under the apple tree. It struck me that I had lived there for five years and only now was learning these people's names, what they did for a living and how they passed the winter. It was as if the old apple tree was gathering us under its branches for the purpose of both acquaintanceship and shared wonder.
Just the other day, I saw one neighbor at the local store. He remarked how this recent winter had been especially long and complained of not having seen or spoken at length to anyone in our neighborhood. And then, he looked at me and said, "We need to prune that apple tree again. "
