Lady Li’s pure, gentle name means the white plum flower;
her slight, slender, moving form holds a quiet power.
When I watch her lost in thoughts at the crimson dawning,
she sits resting on a bench—like a swan in longing.
As she’s moving, her soft robe silently is rustling;
bracelets on her slender wrists from afar are sparkling.
All splendid jewels made of jade glisten in the moonlight;
I plead heaven to send help: stay for a while, mute night!
We talk about the faint moon, about silent gladness;
a sweet child is in Li’s smile, and a touch of sadness.
Syllables she slowly says, awaken my dreaming;
her amazing, pleasant voice is a balm, a gleaming.
The ladder leans
against the apple tree
with a kind of trust~
wood resting on wood,
both patient.
I climb a few rungs
and see the world
from a slightly higher honesty.
apples loosen from branches
with the soft thud of certainty.
nothing dramatic~
just fruit completing its journey
from skyward reach
to earth’s open palm.
I walk the path
and feel myself ripen too.
My heart* is a secret orchard
welcoming the entrance of the divine Gardener
Whose tending grace cheers flowers of prayer delight
as He hears supplications that faith-filled white roses shout
along the plight of chrysanthemums and daisies for nourishment-radiance.
In my heart's garden thrive vines that strive to reach the top
vibrantly inviting sovereign sun-rays for illumination-triumph
with wise enlightenment for counsel against towering arrogance
while lingering in the warm presence of the Creator Who inspires
always checking selfish motives and directing victory toward His exaltation.
Opening my heart's blessed garden
is the perfect Tiller, supplying it constantly
with goodness-buds midst serenity blossoms
against attacking pests of dearth and weeds of fruitlessness
replenishing with blessing toward abundant harvests to share His love and kindness.
*Psalm 44:21 Shall not God search this out? for he knoweth the secrets of the heart.
April 27, 2026
Edited on May 20, 2026
2nd place, "My heart is a secret garden" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 5/21/2026
Each and every day it's such a thrill to include
all the home grown organic produce, such a large percentage of our daily intake of food
Fruit that that does not fit with ease within a rhyming verse
no matter, it's the delicacy of the flavour on the taste buds as they burst
Some of these fruits include, black, yellow and green sapote
gotta eat them on their own, not in a fruit compote
Some fruits are flowering now, in the future we shall yield
native atherton raspberry, papaya and soursop
The aroma of their blossom spreading through the field
There's mangoes, bananas and dragon fruit, all part of the enterprise
but there's predators like fruit bats and noisy cockatoos, who like the fruit as much as us
From those attracted to the fruit, we must find some form of disguise
Other varieties in the orchard, rollinias, bullocks heart and peanut butter fruit
One day they will provide some tucker, part of the culinary pursuit
We’re planting an orchard of trees,
with shade we may never sit beneath,
yet the fruit of our hands will bless future lands,
with a harvest that grows underneath.
A repost
She waits near the peach orchard
Waits to take love's calloused hand
Autumn's leaves are nearly gone
Winter's cold wind on life lands
Whispers in soft twilight glow
As snow on the mountains fall
Memories like rivers pass
As future's vision does stall
The seasons have had hard blows
Mixed in blessings from above
Memories comfort us so
While hand and hand, we still love
Silver strands in moonlight shines
Love now a great fulfilled dream
Through some storms and gentle snow
Love's true strength will always gleam
The Orchard of femininity
Fine day, sun and sky, I walked in an almond tree orchard
The scholars call it a deciduous bush, and the learned
has no artistic sense, looking for a Latin name
like the tree would care.
It is peaceful here, a feminine place, and no one shouts
“Get off my land, you, arsehole.”
The trees are dressed for the ball, getting married to spring,
And since they are equally beautiful, no competition.
When deflowered, they will be pregnant and bear fruit
called almond; not yet, though, they will look lovely in a few weeks more
before taking up the burden of motherhood as
yellow wildflowers nod in harmony.
Violet Grape Purple Envelope
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Contest Judged: 10/4/2025 11:20:00 AM
( 7th place )
In the mailbox, it waited,
a violet grape purple envelope…
not the plain white of bills,
not the business-blue of routine,
but a shade rich as twilight grapes
pressed into wine.
The flap held more than paper;
Its pulse echoed the warmth of a waiting hand,
the secret weight of words
never said aloud.
I lifted the seal,
and the room tilted…
like stepping into a midsummer orchard
where each branch hung heavy,
brimming with whispered secrets
of fruit still blushing in the sun.
Inside, no gold, no check,
just a letter, simple and trembling.
Ink curved across the page
like vines climbing a trellis…
every word a fruit,
sweet with risk,
staining me purple.
I held it close,
as though the page exhaled in quiet pulses,
like hidden grapes fermenting
beneath stone and quiet flame…
a slow transformation,
love softening into molten amber.
I ate a tangy orange today—
its honeyed nectar pulled me back,
to the orchard, where the air danced
with citrus and sunlight.
That tangy, sweet fragrance
brought back a rush of memories:
childhood days of spraying peels,
stinging our eyes, saying, “It’ll make your eyes brighter,”
each sting a playful dare.
I see my mother now,
drying the peels on the windowsill.
What spell was she crafting,
what secret magic lay hidden in those husks?
The orchard is no longer just trees,
but a portal to travel in time.
Its fruit holds the echoes of my memories,
each bite... a step closer to home.
The sky scatters pixie dust~
across orchards of dragonflies;
while in sunflowers, the stars do trust,
tracing tales through kohl-lit eyes.
A fairy cloaked in soft florals~
fragranced moon-mists and rhinestone rust.
But within veins of golden corals,
she weaves hope with saffron crust.
When the leaves of autumn take a breather, they fall
dropping colored reminders of their curtain call.
Winter's bare branches show the icy pall of death -
but underneath lie seeds waiting for a first breath.
With the advent of spring comes forth revenant life;
shoots from those same branches are abundantly rife.
Skipping through the weeks to summer, from limb to limb
spring's blossoms have borne fruit in that brief interim.
"Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." Rumi
She sits near the peach orchard
Waits to take love's calloused hand
Autumn's leaves are nearly gone
Winter's cold wind on life lands
Whispers in soft twilight glow
As snow on the mountains fall
Memories like rivers pass
As future's vision does stall
The seasons have had hard blows
Mixed in blessings from above
Memories comfort you so
While hand and hand, we still love
Silver strands in moonlight shines
Love now a great fulfilled dream
Through some storms and gentle snow
Love's true strength will always gleam
Apples
turning pink
neighbor's yard
Orchard Smudging
Written: by Miracle Man
3/28/2024
When, heavy frost was forecast,
for all the area and reaches.
Orchards would burn smudge pots,
trying to save their peaches.
A northwesterly wind whispers,
through recently budding trees.
We pray the temps don’t fall,
and the peach buds don’t freeze.
Smudging is not widely practiced today
due to health concerns.
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