The Orchard

The orchard pulses to its own internal rhythms:
the rapid patter of day-night-day-night,
ebbing and flowing with the course of the year.
The bass notes of the seasons as they merge and meld;
the peculiar solos played by the weather fronts.
Each tree, in tune with the biosphere, anticipates the
next climax, readying to hit their note. Precision is key:
when spring weaves her motif into fullness,
the orchard erupts as one in a perfectly timed
crescendo of blossom. Summer’s theme emerges,
and already they breathe deep, preparing for the
exertion of bursting into leaf. A few adolescents
chuckle as some saplings pre-empt their cue,
greening too early. The elders smile inwardly
knowing soon they too will align with the melody,
just as they have all learned, each generation
joining the arrangement in harmony, flawlessly
chanting their part. Already they swell once again,
the promise of fruit foretold in autumn’s
bittersweet score. Apples appear; amplify;
augment into wholeness, before those that remain
drop: a percussive salvo, impeccably timed for winter’s
melancholy notes to braid with their offering.
Leaves, too, are gifted: an eruption of colour,
desiccation, release, as strengthening breezes
accept the bequest. The orchard pauses, collectively
catching its breath, enjoying winter’s mellifluous strains,
her soporific chorus. Who can imagine a life more
dramatic? They yearn for all creatures to tap their
creative potential. Hard to achieve without roots.

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