The Orchard
It’s just across the neighbor’s yard—
a small orchard—maybe a dozen apple trees,
a pear, a row of overgrown raspberries.
The owner lives in a house on the next hill over
near his greenhouses—which take
all his time, it would seem.
I’ve never seen him over here.
The money’s over there, I guess.
His daughter is in my grade.
She doesn’t ventured over either.
Can’t blame her. But for three older girls,
all the kids around here are boys.
I walk through memory’s
orchard grass. It has taken me
Sixty years to notice the absences.
The owner is long gone. Who knows,
maybe his daughter is too.
The orchard has been replaced.
An apartment complex sits there now.
I used to climb in his trees and eat
his green apples, watch the cars
go by on our gravel road.
That’s all. Dust settles all around.
Dust settles on grass into ground.