The Orchard

Today  the orchard
is overflowing.
Not with fruit but echoes
from the past.

It was my mother’s home.
Now it is mine
her body now
finished with the toils of life.

Beyond picking
the apples fall in circles
about tree trunks.
And the bees drone
on their ripened sweetness.

From memory shadows
I see us as the wild
carefree children we were.
The vines ripped of the grapes
juice staining our faces.

In the tangle wood
of blackberry vines.
I see mom once more
picking fruit berries for pies.
Her hardworking hands
as red as blood.
her eyes as soft as velvet.

The southern sun curves above
to fall over the horizon.
Now the bees hum over the vines.
The grapes filling their demands
for nectar.

In the night all is still
I sleep in her bed
to feel her mothers kiss again.

And in the morning
the world and the orchard
will be sweeter.