There were two orchards.   
The last was rampant with hay and yellow mustard.   
There, I lay hidden in the grass   
Remembering an orchard in the past.   

Then, there had been apple trees and pears that held their 
    branches up,   
And endless sheltered acres, too wide for one child day,   
But small enough to know   
Which trees received with step-like hands   
And which refused to play,   
And in which corner willows grew beside the stream   
And made a place to stay.   

One late Easter we took our eggs   
And sat in patches of the sun   
We smelled the damp bloom overhead,   
Our baskets on the flowered floor.   
The insects' singing had begun   
A butterfly was out of doors...   
It was so sweet... but we were young.   

In June we stole the salt and crept into the deepest woods.   
With young green apples, small and sour   
We hid an hour where not a soul could see   
And gorged ourselves like hungry birds   
Enjoying our conspiracy.   

Asparagus sprouted on the bounds.   
We'd spend a day gathering stalks,   
Counting pheasants as they burst up,   
When old Freckles ran around   
Capering like a tipsy pup,   
The dear old hound.   

In winter it was filled with snow   
And opened up to show, how row on row,   
Every tree had its space.   
In summer you would never know,   
For leaved, it was a close and covered place.   

In that latter place I lay, an orchard many miles away,   
With other fruit and other weeds.   
Almost adult by then, I knew that I could never go again   
To the orchard that I owned, the way a child owns his 
    world.   

I never visit back.   
There are houses now in both.   
A younger tree was saved just here and there to suit a lot.   
They say some of the pears still bear,   
But the orchard isn't there.