memories

memories,
thorns          broken nights—
an orchard sprinkled with pink flowers,

so low        touching my face.

you said

“—they were meant to be there, 
the apple trees,

low to the ground,

at the stretch of your hand, 

petals are kissing your lips—“

I listen, 
I smell, 
I feel,

I taste the memory 
crunchy,       juicy, 
sweet—

the fragrance caresses my nostrils.

I miss that

5/5/2012 Nina K Orlovskaya