I have come to recognize a pattern in the way I write. I begin with something that captures my attention. Sometimes it is a sound, a scent, or a small movement in the natural world. Other times, a memory, a feeling, or a thought that refuses to leave me alone. I rarely know where it will lead, and I rather like that.
I follow it. I gather impressions, sensations, memories, and the thoughts they awaken, allowing one thing to lead to another without worrying too much about where I might arrive. I don’t begin with a conclusion I wish to reach. Often, I discover what I am trying to say only after I’ve allowed myself the freedom to explore it.
Then comes the work of finding the words. Rearranging, listening, searching for rhythm and cadence until the language begins to resemble music. I want the reader not only to understand what I have noticed, but to experience something of it.
The Orchard After Dark began this way. With the creaking of old branches, the scent of fermenting apples, and the quiet movements of a world that continues whether anyone is there to witness it. I followed those observations, and somewhere along the way, a poem emerged.
The branches creak beneath the weight
of what remains,
their old wood bending
in the cooling air.
The bees have abandoned their summer hum,
and leaves, curled and brittle at the edges,
brush against one another
with the dry whisper of paper.
Somewhere in the darkness,
an apple loosens from its stem.
A brief descent,
the soft, low sound
of fruit meeting earth.
The orchard smells of dark soil,
of rain held in the grass,
of wet wood and sweetness
beginning to turn.
Beneath the trees, fallen apples split,
their flesh growing soft,
their sugars surrendering
to the invisible work of decay.
Clouds drift across the moon,
scattering its pale light
among the naked branches,
touching wood that has spent the summer
hidden beneath a thousand leaves.
For a moment, the orchard is silver.
Then shadow gathers again.
Deer move between the trunks,
their hooves pressing gently
into the rain-softened ground.
The faint musk of their passing
mingles with the dampness,
and somewhere among the grasses
a small creature stirs
beneath the fallen leaves.
Close to the earth,
where bruised fruit gathers
and the season’s remnants settle,
the slow work of decomposition
holds its hidden warmth.
Above, the branches sway
against a sky that cannot quite
decide to clear.
Below, in the dark,
roots draw what they can
from the cooling soil,
and the orchard continues
its quiet, intricate life—
the softening,
the falling,
the slow, unseen becoming
that requires no witness.
Leave a Reply