The orchard is bare

I’ve lost the apples
and the orchard is bare.
No leaves aflutter, no blossoms glittering.
Acres of grey
in fields of frozen white.

I’ve lost the apples
and the orchard is bare.
No rustling hands, grasping for fruit.
Acres of silence
in fields of cold misery.

I’ve lost the apples
and the orchard is bare.
But a pocket of snow melts; the bluejay fights on.
Acres of possibility
in fields of new growth.