The seasonal sun fire kisses,
To ablaze sweet Ida skins.
Enchant my eyes to sense,
The difference of my life’s fabrication.
Like cavities that fed on my mind.
All the pretending of love.
That never nurtured.
My blood to flow,
To make my skin a blushing rose.
Now I see I’m too old to huff impatiently. I’m left to asking how do I orchestrate an orchard?
I simply cannot.
For if I control it,
I’ll cultivate only a bitter lust.
A love to grow as naturally as
Ida Reds, must be surrender in trust.
To the graceful hands of nature.
That one day could embrace me tightly
In tangible warmth,
And fray the cold negligence.
Poem & Photograph(Saturday’s stroll thru apple orchard): Naomi Ruth S. W.