If I could paint the orchard sky today 
it would be a soft New England grey. 
The moisture in the air, palpable, 
hangs low like the trees with their heavy burdens.

 Swaddled in loveliness, 
not alone or together
 just here with each other and the blushing apples 
I take in their rounded perfection
 and know it was beauty—not knowledge—Eve desired.