Orchards dream, too.
They dream through the long night
and into the cool early pocket before day
where birds are busy
talking and talking.
Soon the sun will top the trees
and morning’s cool shade will
sizzle in the heat.
But here.
But now.
Sun filters through the trees,
the orchard glistens and dozes,
half-listening to the insistent birds
who talk only of Now,
and half-dreaming of
men and trees and animals
who passed here before, lingered,
and are gone.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 