Orchard
No one knows what grows in me, no one sees these quiet trees; my orchard stands behind my eyes, where wounded hopes still try to rise. I walk among the branches bent, pruning all the years I spent; air‑layered dreams in moss and time, waiting for their roots to find. But my dreams, they aren’t so empty— they cling like fruit that won’t let go; and though my conscience feels like winter, there’s sap beneath the snow.Some nights the wind cuts through my grove, shaking all the things I love; but still I tend each fragile shoot, hoping one will bear its fruit.If you could see this orchard living, you’d know I’m more than what I seem; a man who grafts his broken moments into one long, stubborn dream.