By Payton Posner, TIWP Student

there is an orchard
that grows on the bottom of a lake.
no one remembers how it sank,
whether a storm dragged it under
or it simply forgot
how to stay above the surface.

down there, the trees still stand,
their branches lifting like tired hands
through the greenish dim.
fruit hangs heavy, swollen with water,
too burdened to fall,
too stubborn to float.

walking among them is like moving
through someone else’s breath,
slow, thick, resisting every step.
your limbs ache
the way thoughts do
when they keep circling the same place
but never rise.

the sunlight reaches down
in faint ribbons,
hesitant, unsure,
how to touch anything so deep.

you can see brightness
close enough to imagine its warmth,
far enough to doubt
you ever felt it.

some days, the orchard stirs,
a shiver through the branches,
a ripple of what could be wind
if wind could reach this far.
but it fades quickly,
exhausted by the effort
of almost.

you run your fingers along the bark
softened and waterlogged
and feel the ghost of a pulse,
a thrum that says the trees
are not dead,
just living in a place
where growing costs more
than standing still.

and sometimes, when you look up
you think you see the surface lift
as if waiting for you.
you try to rise.
your body remembers how.
but the water holds you
with a gentle, familiar hand,
whispering that stillness
is easier than swimming.

so you stay.
you walk through the orchard
as if it were a memory.
you haven’t decided to leave.
light wavers overhead.
the branches sway like slow breathing
and the fruit glows faintly
as though it’s trying
to ripen in the dark.