In the orchard where we used to wander,
under trees sagging with secrets of summer,
the ground is littered now,
with fruit that once glistened promisingly above.

We plucked laughter from the branches,
ripe and bursting, sweet juice
running down chins, careless
of time’s quiet devouring.

Now the leaves whisper old names,
faces like echoes through the boughs;
the wind carries away the petals
of moments too delicate to stay.

Apples, once symbols of our fervor,
lay bruised, fermenting back into earth—
the cycle of life and decay,
a mirror of our own fleeting blooms.

Yet in this gentle rot, life insists,
and seeds of new beginnings swell;
for even beneath the weight of lost springs,
roots dig deep, holding on to the promise of renewal.

Every farewell in the air, every hello in the soil,
mingling in the dance of bitter and sweet.