Orchard On A Hill

Orchard On A Hill prose poem

Photo by scrumpyboy


Splashes of green lined up row after row.
Limbs of green shooting skyward downward everywhere.
Vibrant light shades of newness this time every year.
Each displaying its own vibrant uniqueness.

As the winds blow hot, green takes on a mature look.
Little orbs of light green begin to appear, growing larger redder, same as last year.
Big red plumpness filled up by the rain.
Limbs droop and groan as the weight of the task made increasingly clear.

Warm winds give way to northern brethren, blowing cooler and stronger.
Limbs pregnant with swollen redness moan waiting, wanting
to expel the burden, as it does every year.
Leaves darken, grow crunchy and float to the ground.
Redness has spread from sky to ground, as colder stronger winds begin to expound.

Straight lined scraggly row after row hunched over old women worn down by ordeal.
Limbs whipping in cold wind like witches hair,
gnarly bent fingers pointing, accusing everywhere.
Dark skies in control.

Old women waiting, waiting for warm winds to reappear to once again made fruitful, as it was just last year.

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