Lanterns for the Orchard

At dusk the orchard hangs its small moons, fruit breathing sugar into the cooling air, and every branch remembers a hand the way water remembers the curve of a stone.

Between the rows, fog unspools its pale ribbon, threading ladders, fallen leaves, old crates. I walk where the ground keeps yesterday’s rain, and the soil answers softly through my shoes.

A wind arrives carrying far church bells, thin metal notes combing through the dark. Apples knock together like quiet cups, as if the trees are toasting what they cannot keep.

Night finally closes the gate behind me. In my coat pocket one bruised apple warms, a small lantern of scent and weight, teaching my hands the shape of departure.