The Orchard Keeps Its Weather

In the orchard, the old trees do not hurry. They carry the year in their darkened limbs— the white arithmetic of blossom, the green weight of August, the small red lanterns the thrushes leave behind. I came looking for a season to keep. The grass answered with its patient seed, and a pear, loosened by its own ripeness, fell softly into the waiting earth. Nothing was lost in the sound. The branches lifted, relieved of one sweetness, and the ground made room for another.