Of man’s creations there are many,
A well cared for mature orchard
Is certainly one.
Be it generator of fruit or nuts,
Their perfect symmetry is bless,
Row upon row, standing tall,
Branches almost touching one,
Tree unto another,
Filled out and lushly dense,
As to block out the sun,
Ever striking the earth.
The ground beneath, around the trees,
Swept and manicured clean as a
Empty Billiard Table, awaiting the harvest.
Walk among these umbrella like trees
A tranquil quite abounds,
Recalling the peaceful interior of a church,
The songs of nesting birds the heavenly chorus.
A cool and shaded location, to be alone,
Well suited to meditation,
Or even composing a Poem.
Yet, oh how sad it truly is,
When an orchard goes abandoned,
Becoming the embodiment of apathetic neglect,
A bombed out city ruin of good intentions,
Weed choked and cluttered,
Rotted Harvest and blackened branches,
Littering the unkempt ground.
Gone now from tranquil perfection,
To a dead and dying blight upon the land.
With no human hands to tend it,
Its glory is gone and the end is near.
Similar now to a spooky Cemetery,
No longer a space of serene splendor,
Or a place one might desire to undertake,
A meandering reflective stroll.