He set out to the task at hand
Upon watching the beautiful tree.
Trimming the branches, one by one,
In a labour of love.
One by one, slowly,
The branches fell to the floor.
The outer ones, the inner ones, all fell
But one, and he stopped there,
Knowing that it held
The handkerchief with the red stain.
And although he could not cut it then,
He said to himself that, next time,
This one too would come off,
And the tree stand bare and beautiful,
Revealing her forbidden fruit.
