THE FRUITS COME in crowds into my orchard, they jostle each other. They surge up in the light in an anguish of fullness. Proudly step into my orchard, my queen, sit there in the shade, pluck the ripe fruits from their stems, and let them yield, to the utmost, their burden of sweetness at your lips. In my orchard the butterflies shake their wings in the sun, the leaves tremble, the fruits clamour to come to completion.
