Glass Orchard at High Tide

The harbor orchard opens at dusk, when the tide climbs the marble steps and apples of sea-glass glow like held breath in the dark.

I walk between the trees of scaffolding, their branches strung with weathered buoys, each one a bell that remembers a hand and the salt it once kept.

Wind turns the fruit, and light passes through, green and bruised, a soft fever. The city behind me lifts its iron throat and sings in low gears.

When the water finally retreats, it leaves a lacquer of moon on the stones; I carry the orchard in my sleeves, a clinking quiet, a tide of light.