The Orchard of Hours

We walk into a clockwork orchard at dusk, branches ticking with small, warm fruit, the air smelling of copper and rain, and the ground is soft with unsaid minutes.

Each apple is a different afternoon, one bruised by thunder, one bright as a bell; I cup them like a listener, learning how a season speaks through its sweetness.

A wind moves through the rows like a patient hand, sorting the leaves by the light they keep; it lifts a strand of hair and sets it down as if returning a borrowed word.

Night comes carrying a basket of stars, and we leave the orchard with our pockets full; the hours, heavy and fragrant, give way on the tongue to the quiet taste of now.