Writers 
The Orchard of Glass
I waited for fruit
while I planted silence in a jar.
Weeks went by.
My breath caused the glass to fog.
Small lights sprouted inside,
like pears made of dusk.
They weren't watered by me.
They were not named by me.
I only listened.
There was no need for soil in the orchard.
The kind of silence in between heartbeats
was what it required.
It was necessary for me to stop asking when.
The jar broke one morning
not because of pressure,
but due to the burden of becoming.
Golden rivers of slow light
flowed across the table.
It found every scar
as it pooled in the wood's creases.
and allowed them to shine.
I had the impression that I had a garden.
I was instead produced by the garden.
It taught me to hold things
without grabbing them with my hands.
My eyes learned how to see
without looking.
The broken jar is now stored on a shelf.
not as an injury.
as a proof.
that something can start in the dark,
trespass without permission,
and continue to select to open
At night, I pass it as I walk by.
The air inside still hums from time to time.
Sometimes I swear I hear leaves
that was unaffected by wind.
That is how we are, right?
transporting entire seasons to small locations.
waiting for the opening that lets light through.
not to get away.
to become known.
Therefore, I no longer rush the fruit.
I don't keep track of the days.
Just keep the jar close by,
and allow whatever is developing
grow.
