It's when a fruit is growing on a tree and a twig or leaf brushes against the fruit as it's maturing and leaves this mark. It's a characteristic of a lot of oranges you never see.

As the twig is bent the tree inclines.

Hang there like fruit, my soul,Till the tree die.

First I shake the whole Apple tree, that the ripest might fall. Then I climb the tree and shake each limb, and then each branch and then each twig, and then I look under each leaf.

The fig tree grows its flowers strangely inside out, concealed within the soft interior of the fruit. Erszébet imagines the fig's hidden fairy weight of seeds, grown in sweetness that is also a darkness. Like treasure in a cave.

This is an invalid ordinance. Everything is fruit of the poisonous tree.