The Hunt in the Orchard

I came at dusk, when air was still,

and found the orchard overgrown.

The trees leaned close upon the hill—

their fruit had ripened, then had flown.

No voice replied, no lantern burned,

just scent of earth and memory’s wine.

Yet in the hush, my heart discerned

a trace of what was once divine.

The grass was gold, the apples bruised,

the wind was thick with sweet decay.

I knew this path; my steps refused

to lose the ache that led the way.

He had been here—the soil confessed,

the roots still whispered where he knelt.

His hands had taught the world its rest,

his breath had stirred the fields I felt.

I hunted not for beast or crown,

but for the warmth his heart had sown.

The lantern of my search burned down—

its flame was small, yet still it shone.

And there, between the leaf and loam,

a flicker rose, a tender spark.

It was not his, yet still it shone—

the love that outlives every dark.

So now I walk the orchard’s seam,

and gather what the branches keep.

The hunt is not to find, but dream—

to wake what love will never sleep.