Rick’s Orchard
When we lift our arms
apples seem to jump to our fingers
as if squealing Pick me! Pick me!
while we navigate among chickens
underfoot and a guard-rooster
who glares, who disapproves,
who follows our every step.
Bees from a stack of hives
hover and buzz about our ears.
Sun heats, shade cools,
the hose washes apple-skin sugar
from the flesh of our hands.
It is not toil it is faith
as beneath our feet roots pull
nourishment from earth,
water glistens from leaf-tip
and I cry to the sky
Pick me! Pick me!
……
From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Roanoke Review
Photo by Ralphs_Fotos on Pixabay
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