White Sunday 223: orchard winds

the blossoms have long since retreated
to form the bud of the fruit, red and green,
crisp to the bite. tart to the tongue.
any day now. I will fulfill my duty
and take a knee at the edge of the orchard,
while the subtle fragrance is carried out
to us by the winds in the branches, a scent
of hope and innocence, rediscovered.
do not think I am here for anything less
than everything you are and will be,
to share beyond this insidious box I am in.
for now. ten months silence bought to prove
that I was and am faithful and true
to words last summer and, if declined,
will ask again in the next apple harvest.
Eden is an overarching metaphor for this,
hidden behind the trellis of an hasty haiku.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.