In our orchard of iconic green, where
splendid are the fruits between
teasing branches of bearing trees, that
tantalise the snatching breeze.
Apples
Sour, from a canopy of delusion
Soiled its aftertaste of intrusion
Recoiled; abhorrent the infusion
Ripened
Sweet and lustrous, radiant sheen
Reflections caught unlike unseen in
Lambent skin of nectarine
We eat
Pure sand gold thoughts of sun
Drifting echoes solidified as one
Sweet essences of laughter and fun
We join
Wind’s blusterous, busy conversation
No time to stop or inclination
Till harvested; aura of our destination
We sleep
In our orchard of iconic green, where
splendid are the fruits between
teasing branches of bearing trees, that
tantalise the snatching breeze.
Love the rhythm, the peruse of destination. 😊
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Love the comment. Thank you!
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Anita,
I really liked the mini-series within the poem. To me it resembled the apples falling to the ground, each with its own story to tell.
Dajena 🙂
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Exactly or simply stages of the process and within those a story, right. Thank you for coming and taking the time – much appreciated.
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🙂 You area welcome Anita.
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Aw this is beautiful
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Why thank ee! I really appreciate all your lovely comments and the time taken.
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