Orchard

Paper leaves on apple trees
Are thoughts inside my head
That on the fingers of my branches
Rustle brown and dead.

There was a time when all was new
Soft emerald instead
But now the golden and the green
Await the autumn tread.

Every leaf a unique one
Once jostled to be shed
Just like a winter snowflake
From out its cloud of lead.

Why did not an apple grow
An apple green or red
To hang below the orange sun
Inside my orchard head?