They are held tight to the grit
In the grip of the sky
In the grit in the eye
And woodchip in our spit
Pruning the orchard
In a land of Peace
Where song birds flutter
The home of bees
And a bliss of Quiet
Yet never still
The looming presence of trees
The time you have to kill
Activity drums and hums
Your thumbs never idle
In the aisles, the rows
Almost bridal
You stand and wait for a kiss
Under the mistletoe
But, it never comes
Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth
But she would take a bite from the apple
Of course
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