Rilke’s orchard

But we have no Rilke orchard,
Only his green memory grass.

His orchard is heavy with sun
When a sun is no more dying

Because his window is closed
And gray ashes are smeared

All over empty sky’s blue face
While new sun is born to die

Again and again and orchard
Turns heavy with sun’s rising.

The ripe apples fall to a grass
And they are heavy with sun.

(Remembering Rilke’s Orchard poem)

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