What sacrifices must I make to step into the orchard?
The skirt around me is too long.
The tension of the fabric determines how sunlight reaches the fruit trees.
There are several apples on the ground, inedibly weathered, and several about to fall, glossy with assumed precedence.
How will I carry what I need to carry?
The numinous work of gathering looks like holding a basket in my arms, looking outward into the field, humming a springtime melody, all from the length of my dignity.
So this is why I write poems: to weave a skep.