The Glass Orchard

Winter set the orchard still

in panes of frost and sugar-light.

Each apple holds a frozen will,

a summer trapped in honest white.

I press a palm against the bark.

It answers like a distant bell.

The fruit, unmoving, leaves a mark

of sweetness I can almost tell.

Come thaw, the glass will learn to fall.

The red will find the branch once more.

Until that hour, I keep them all—

an orchard locked behind a door.