Orchardwords
Below are exerpts from my newest chapbook available on Amazon.
All words and photos by Frank Geiger
The original barn on Starbarrack Road still stands.
The Orchard Elf
Posted August 12, 2025
Maybe the picker was interrupted,
by lunch or some angry bee.
Leaves could have hidden it,
or the field hand thought it too tiny.
Even so, still amazing the stem
held on to the fruit at all.
While all others of the orchard’s bearings,
if not picked, dropped to the ground in the fall.
But here in February, this tree,
still hangs on to one apple for itself.
With snow cap, and wrinkled frozen face,
it resembles to me, and I name it, the orchard elf.
"I know you," I whisper, but
no one back at the house will hear.
"You and the others must be the ones,
who paint my apples red each year."
I chuckle at my own joke,
remembering the stories I've told.
I should show the elf to my grandson as proof,
if mother doesn't think it too cold.
But before I could even finish the thought,
dare say, before I could even turn to go,
Something unseen, and nothing I did,
caused the little apple to drop into the snow.
The twig, which held it, shivered a bit,
almost waving to the elf, goodbye.
With the only proof of the meeting but,
a small hole in the snow shaped like an eye.
I realized of course, it was over, and
the result of my walk hard to believe.
And while on another day a while longer I would have walked,
I turned to the house to leave.
As I made my way back to the house,
I vowed this secret to keep.
Some moments are best kept to yourself,
like some dreams you have in your sleep.
From the porch mother called out to me,
"You took your walk and left your grandson all to himself?"
"It could not be helped," and I guess then I smiled,
"I had an appointment with an orchard elf."
The Bench Remains
Posted August 1, 2025
The birds that come and skate on the ice
Drink the chill water and wash a plume
In the dark mud or in the trunks of trees
Bees huddle in the warm, waiting for the bloom.
It is winter yet shows some green that pushes through
A yellow bird drinks for a moment from a tuft
And water spills over the shale catching the light
As she wings away to dry having had enough.
I sat on the bench by the old Mill Creek
And declared it was a mistake they made
This blue steel atop a concrete bed
Was the only thing ever left here that stayed.
Leaves and twigs that the trees gave up
Had found a new settlement by now
Floated away or bound by a breeze
Or taken for a nest back up to mother bough.
But the bench remains as if just made
Maintenance free and ready to please
But I wonder if those who planted it here
Had ever come back to visit these trees.
Who knows what year the coated steel was formed
And what was cleared from this bank in the shade
Aligning the thing to be level and plum
While the fund-raisers handed out lemon-aide.
Perhaps if the bench had been from an old sawn log
Or of dimensional lumber from a local mill
Someone surely would come back to check
That the gifted seat were still here still.
But no one comes as they are very sure
That their monument is still one with the earth
And the water goes by and the birds still sing
Even if no one can hear their mirth.
I muse to myself like an old bird on a perch.
That this bench will be for generations to inherit
And in truth, I’m glad the bench gave me a moment
To pretend that this old bird’s song has any merit.
-fg
A Limited Migration
Posted July 28, 2025
I’ve swung from the birches with Robert Frost
I’ve taken the path that got us both lost
There we were where no man has stood
Stuck with each other in a yellow wood
I’ve kicked the leaves with Donald Hall
I’ve piled them tight along foundation wall
There we were on the dewy lawn
Like two lost birds from the Audubon
I studied with poets, but years ago
I can’t say it stuck, and I may never know
But I still grab the pen when north winds blow
And still I fly, like an old winter crow
-fg