Orchard

(for AJK.) In mid-July I find myself without a word, while trying as it is to break into your poem, walk the human route to joy, the one unshamed of both its ache to free itself from underneath the stout and very heavy Budai statue fake, as well as its uncompromising bouts of sadness. Surely as you hold mistakes, as confident as I am that they count, to be an orchard: fruit that failures make,…