PHOEBE'S ORCHARD

In this grove there is hushed seclusion,
Timeless, but forever restive and impatient,
A medley of scents, colors, and sounds,
Woven into an other-world enclosure.

The gnarly trees are ancient and weary
From generations of fertile abundance,
Still the fruit, through shriveled and wormy,
Yields a treat for feather and fur.

Now the grass is tall and sinewy,
Sunburnt to the hue of pale honey.
She lies on its spongy bed of warmth,
Lulled by the throbbing quiet around her,

Only the voices of nature speak here.
A bird trills, the bee drones in concert,
Working from daisy to the creeping rose
That blooms along the mossy stonewall.

In the cocoon of a late summer's noon
With tangy apples wafting the air,
She sighs, somnolent from the midday heat
Soaring the enchantment of this sheltered place.