The Lantern in the Orchard

At dusk, I walk the orchard rows—

the air still sweet with apple rain.

The trees breathe stories no one knows,

their roots remembering his name.

A lantern waits upon the stone,

its flame still fed by borrowed air.

I strike a spark; the light has grown—

his hands, it seems, still linger there.

Each leaf becomes a listening ear,

each branch a prayer the wind repeats.

The bees hum softly, drawing near,

as though they guard his heart’s retreats.

He planted hope in humble ground,

each seed a psalm, each furrowed line.

The lantern hums without a sound—

its glow both his and now, and mine.

I tend the soil he once made sing,

I water roots with evening’s breath.

The lantern wavers, whispering—

“There is no end. There is no death.”

The orchard answers, branch to bough,

with fruit that gleams like embered glass.

I bow beneath its offering now,

and let the living moment pass.

When night descends, the fireflies rise—

their tiny lamps, a mirrored sea.

I lift my lantern to the skies,

and know his light still walks with me.