Glass Orchard

Winter has silvered every branch
into a held breath.
I walk the orchard as if it were
a corridor of frozen bells.

Each apple is a small planet
of frost. I do not pick them.
I only learn their names
the way one learns silence.

At the far fence, a crow
opens a blue hinge of sky.
The trees keep their glittering vows.
I keep mine: to look, and leave them whole.