Dead Orchard by Nijole Miliauskaite

dead orchard, dried
plum trees and the frozen apple, dead
trunks, skewed, twisted branches, knotted
fingers, in the cold gray heavens
with a wooden face
between hesitating clouds
beneath my feet dry grass
crunches, last year’s, the smell of dust
permeates the air, piercing, sharp, sand
in my mouth, between my teeth, so brittle, so terrible
I’d like to scream out loud, hear
my own voice
with wooden feet, I walk
back, to the windmill, barely, just barely
standing on a bridge beside the water, near the ragged
windmill, where it is cool and damp, where there are kittens
in the willow, where once more
I inhale
Spring