Sleepless Orchard

Sleepless Orchard

The trees keep all their lanterns lit long after moonrise breaks.

Each apple is like an amber eye that never quite forsakes.

The branches whisper rumor-soft, the grass forgets to breathe—

This sleepless orchard holds its watch while I refuse to leave.

°°°

I came here with a head too loud for any proper bed.

With questions clanging on the hour like jars inside my head.

The city’s glow fell off the map; the roads ran out of sound.

I followed roots instead of signs and let the dark surround.

°°°

Above, the constellations sag like clothes on ancient lines;

Below, these fruits make smaller stars in crooked, glowing rows and vines.

I walk between two galaxies—one hung and one that fell—

A corridor of restless light that knows my nerves too well.

°°°

The apples do not pity me; they’ve overheard it all—

The lovers’ truce, the farmer’s debt, the fox’s hungry call.

They’ve felt the frost, they’ve worn the bruise, they’ve ripened under doubt,

Yet still they cling to limb and dawn until the truth shakes out.

°°°

I pick the one that looks most tired, the one with mottled skin,

A planet with its own small scars and storms that raged within.

I bite and find the night is sweet, not free of ache, but kind—

A tart reminder: goodness grows in weather-battered rind.

°°°

By three A.M., the crickets tune a softer, lower choir.

The wind re-buttons every leaf; the glow dims leaf by wire.

My thoughts, once tangled in the boughs, climb down and lose their sting;

I leave the trees to keep the watch and go where mornings sing.

°°°

If ever you can’t make your mind lie down or call it tame,

Come walk where sleepless branches burn without an ounce of blame.

This orchard doesn’t fix the world or end what keeps you up—

It simply holds the dark with you and offers you a cup.