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.