In the Travelled Hollows of Orchards

O, mellow fields
the stars are strung above you
in delight.  Fireflies mingle amidst them,
everything’s flickering. 

 

There’s no need for a candle;
the night is warm, the moon is shining.
Flute notes of the nightingale’s song
whisper hints of ancient secrets.

 

Summer has shimmered and stopped.
What’s left in the orchard is overripe
and fit only for bees.  Apple perfume
laughs on the wind.

 

It is a season of celebration and faith.
Even when chill claims the air, the wanderer
carries his cloak on his arm, trusting
the remembered flame of the maples

 

 and the promise of Spring
to keep him warm through the winter
for in the travelled hollows of orchards
his heart has found home.