Only a few yards
from the old homestead foundation
of partially buried cement chunks
now covered with sod-
An ancient cherry tree
leans to the south,
the northern half bare, the other half
bears heavily its century old promises.
Among the orchard lifeblood of this farm,
this tree’s fruit was picked by ladder, dew-freshened
at dawn on June mornings, to travel for hours
by horse drawn wagon to farmers’ market in town by lunch.
Once grandly touching the sky, this tree now broken,
kisses the ground in gentle sweeping caress,
nearly forgotten year round until
this summer week of fruitful surrender.
Already dying and collapsed, but not quite lost,
its roots plunge deep for one more season;
this faithful cherry buds again with fragrant blooms
arising from gnarled knots
To yield bite size glory on crooked branches,
amber globes that glisten with rosy sheen,
clinging tightly in clusters that dangle
from lichen patched limbs.
Soon gathered heaping in deep bowls of golden trove,
to celebrate the freeing burst of captive juice,
its nectar savored and pit discarded,
an unforgotten legacy of a tree's sweet abandon.
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