Orchard

Silent orchard,
Behind his house.
Visited by his children,
But only in the fall.

Gnarled trees stand in rows,
While alone, bees are working.
The leaves, the leaves,
Are turning golden- brown.

The air is heavy and sweet,
With ripe, soon-to-be-rotting fruit.
Apples hang from the boughs,
Ready for picking and eating.