VI. The Hidden Orchard

The orchard wears a crown of bloom,

each branch a veil, each flower a plume.

White petals drift like falling snow,

but what they hide, the roots still know.

Beneath the blush, the fruit will swell,

a sweetness born where shadows dwell.

Yet some will bruise, and some will rot,

truth ripens, whether seen or not.

I walk between the rows of trees,

their fragrance thick, their silence seized.

They whisper soft: not all is shown,

the mask of beauty guards its own.

And still, I love them—mask and all,

the blossoms bright, the apples’ fall.

For every orchard holds disguise:

the hidden self the earth supplies.

So let the petals veil the core—

the truth will bloom, then hide once more.