The Orchard
THE ORCHARD
Heavy fruits hang low
from the moss-laden branches.
Legs bare to the breeze,
leaves dense underfoot
carpet the black earth.
Scent of ripening skin
and the moist, sweet plums.
Fermenting purple wine,
rich on the tongue.
Spiders scuttle
past my naked feet.
I want to lie on the soil,
roll the scents of the orchard
deep into my flesh,
sleep with the cloud flash
burning on my eyes.
Waking with the dew
like diamond drops
hanging from my skin.
Alone here amongst the trees
I hear the blackbird perch,
begin its benediction to the day.
High in the branches,
far from human reach,
I am listening now
for the garden's quiet
and calming breath
and the soft hum of the bees.
ARINA FISH
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