the orchard eternally

There's something in the anatomy 
of hands that fills you
with chimes, you told me.


That lone gravestone lilac
-part woman in the soil, ever
to be carved around her being.
Driven by the harvest, may 
her stellar attempts haunt
the orchard eternally.


Yet words still sprout as
though they were echoes in sleep
(and I know the chimes you
speak of; they're heard roaming
through winds arranged gently,
half knowingly by a Zephyr
made happy) when she once
smiled at the sight of 
you deep in 
a puddle of memory.