A tree of life, with various fruits. Many grafted into the branches, their forefathers previously having grown from the tree, but their children having been separated. Many of those fruits still bear the scars of the malnourishment they received prior to being grafted in. Many more now bear fruit.
I see other fruit all around the tree still, lying on the ground, having attempted to take root in the rocky soil, but finding no water because only the tree of life's roots tap into the stream of rushing water. The sun scorches them, they wither and bruise from the separation, the attempt to live separately. But they fail to realize they are only dying, ever so slowly.
I see a husbandman attempting to restore the fruit to the tree, taking what fruits will willingly surrender to new life, and give up striking it out alone. I see him revisit some time and time again that will not break root. He frowns, and moves on to others, not willing that any should perish, but knowing ultimately its up to each fruit to decide.
"Will I let my roots be broken, risk all I have known, to take up a new life? Will I set aside my pride of living by my own means?"