The baskets hold the season quietly.
A pear rests where someone set it down.
Beyond the shelter, water finds the orchard
and darkens every root underground.

I count what reached the table, not the blossoms
that promised more than branches bore.
A harvest is a weight, a scent, a surface;
its proof is not the hope that put it there.

The ladder lies along the wall till morning.
The apron keeps dust and rain.
The tray is tilted toward the evening,
ready to receive light again.

Some fruit remains beyond our fingers.
Some needs time upon the tree.
To leave it growing is not to forget it;
a name cannot replace what time must bring.

I turn the sluice enough to feed the channels.
The water carries neither praise nor blame.
It travels where the gate permits it,
and nourishes the roots without a name.

The hills grow violet beyond the rafters.
A leaf falls through the cooling air.
I set the two pears apart for supper
and leave the basket waiting there.

Tomorrow has its weather and its labor.
Tonight, the table holds what hands have brought.
The orchard keeps growing past the counting.
The water does not stop.