The Songbirds Sing Of An Orchard Poem by Benjamin Wampler

The orchard, hidden Among trees graceful in their standing,
lacked not its own marked beauty;
its every inch covered in a light shadow that drew out the hews of its roses.
shadows cast by the graceful guards that stood around it,
as though to guard it from some evil hand,
some hand that would try to make it feel opprobrium for its beauty;
as though it's absolute beauty was something it should be shamed by.

Yet despite the guards that stood resolute;
trying to guard the orchard from influences that would change it.
Despite the shadows that attempted to hide it from the greedy eyes of humans.
The humans still came, like pesky beings that knew not that the greatest beauty is the one untainted.
The gardeners would still come with their shears;
cutting away the thorns on the bushes that served as the orchards royal guard,
plucking roses freshly shavenof their thorns;
for the vanity of their own homes.
and even after the gardeners came,
stealing the beauty of the natural world
others would come in a soft rhythm
dribbling in as though they were brought by some mysterious force.
They'd come in a rhythm as if playing their part in some song
dancing across the bars of a song.

One, two, two, one they'd come.
Observing, stealing, attempting to possess
the things that they could not.

Some of these humans would come for the peace,
peace brought about by a tranquil mix of light and dark
peace formed through the statue of perpetual twilight.
They came and sat, sitting alone for awhile before leaving;
only a small indentation in the grass to mark that they were ever there.
Yet others came in pairs;
yearning for the sense of tergiversation that it imbued upon them,
letting them earn a sense of dissertation from all but each other.
They would lie together and write stories of their own,
stories born of a silent touch.
Yet even in these silent touches,
even in these wordless moment,
three words would stand said between them
words whispered as though they were to be carried away by the breeze if not held with the utmost care.
'I love you' were the gist of these words created by silence,
words wrote into the very nature around them for but a moment.
As even though these moments of solitude
would mark with fervor words into ground and bark
these words were not the gentle forever they spoke of.

And as time goes by:
the trees would gain new bark,
the grass that was laid flat would rise straight once again,
the words that hung unspoken;
blown away by the gentle breeze.
The scents left by perfumes and colognes;
erased by rain and replaced with the gentle, intoxicating smell of the flowers.


Yet even after this,
the humans would still come;
still guided by some mysterious hand that wished to show it there is shame to be found in beauty.
So the gardeners would still come with their metal sheers and mechanations;
the couples and singles would still come in their soft rhythm,
dancing along to some greater song;
becoming the rhythm of one, two, two, one.

And in this dance, as in every dance,
the dancers would change;
two to one,
forgetting soft spoken oaths of forever;
one to two, speaking lovers oaths of forever,
forgetting the silent beauty that was in the forest around them if they were to pay attention.
Yet in time these new dancers,
dancers that hid themselves in the cloak of the tranquil orchard,
would themselves leave the strange,
the couples once a again leaving marks in the wood;
the gardeners having stolen from the orchards unrelenting beauty once more.

Yet even without the dancers the song went on,
the bent grass of the spine straightening,
the marked trees growing new bark.
And as with all songs,
the song would speed up in the middle of peace,
a speed mirrored by the orchard as the fires of cleansing;
those great raging fires that are caused by nature
array themselves against the orchard;
as though to cleanse the forest of the orchards beauty.
The beauty that had drawn the humans,
to natures eternal shame.

Yet as though in contemplation the orchards song would soften with time, slowing to a gentle pace,
and as though queued by the song:
grass would grow from seeds buried in the fertile soil,
and bushes that were turned to ash's would sprout with them.
And as though in repentance for their actions,
the gardeners,
those who stole of the orchards beauty,
would come to it once more; not as the thieves of the night they'd been before,
but instead gentle caregivers.
They'd help quicken the orchards healing, and with their help,
the song which had laid so soft as to be silent would pick up volume.
And as the trees returned over the generations,
gracing the orchard with their shadows once more,
the song would become a whisper in the ears of the new humans again,
guiding them back into the orchard,
back into the gentle fragrance if the newly grown orchard;
a fragrance that was the songs accompaniment.
And as they returned to the shadowed orchard,
the orchard of the songbird,
they'd be pulled back into the rhythm of the song.
a gentle rhythm of: one, two, two, one.