Late August
in June,
I woke beneath
a roof of green.
rain gathered
in the hollow
of my shoulder,
silver beads
slipping
through the fuzz
of my skin.
around me,
the orchard
kept its own time.
apples struck the earth first,
soft thuds
echoing
between the trees.
cherries disappeared
into wicker baskets,
their stems snapped clean
between careful fingers.
I learned the patience
of wood.
at night,
I searched the pinpricked sky,
envying the stars—
they watched
everything,
yet never asked
anything
to remain.
then
August arrived.
day by day,
heat gathered
until the color of sunset
stained my skin.
each morning,
the branch bowed
lower.
the tree sank its roots
deeper
into the soil.
my scent
left before I did—
drifting through the rows.
yellow jackets
worried the air
with their wings.
ants climbed my stem
and found purple.
I listened.
the orchard
held its breath.
leaves turned
their pale undersides
to the sky.
inside me,
the pit knocked.
small.
steady.
insisting.
one evening,
the branch gave—
the ground rushed to meet me.
my skin split.
juice slid down
the curve
of my body,
darkening the dust.
by morning,
the branch curled its fingers
around empty space.
beneath the orchard,
in the dark,
the pit cracked.
a white root
reached downward.
Kayla Nguyen is an emerging poet based in Eugene, Oregon. Writing primarily in free verse, her work explores the intersections of memory, natural imagery, and the quiet sanctity of everyday spaces. This is Kayla’s first publication.
