The orchard smells green and swollen.
White apple blossoms
scatter in the dirt,
sown like someone’s sin
lost and bloomed too soon.
Silence bathes the canaries
in tangerine light,
casts tall shadows in the shade
of the tree.
Wings batter air.
Feet spring from the twig.
Bodies heave up,
curve away.
Petals blur,
a trail of skins
buried in the dirt,
bloomed, then lost, all the same.

Liesl Graber

Managing Editor

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