-This poem reflects on an apple orchard in late summer, where the promise of spring has ripened into fruit and the quiet fulfillment of the harvest season.
The branches bow with quiet weight,
their fruit held low by patient months,
red and gold among the leaves,
where morning gathers into scent.
Each step along the grassy rows,
stirs fallen apples in the dew,
their sweetness rising through the air,
a harvest written close to earth.
No blossom lingers in this place,
its season long since turned to fruit,
yet every branch remembers spring,
within the shape of what it bears.
To stand beneath such gentle limbs,
is to know abundance without haste,
the patient work of light and rain,
made round enough to fill the hand.