The Fruit

The apple trees emerge from winter sleep
cascades of pink-white blooming bright stars
becoming eye memories for the kitchen child 
eating cherries with cream amidst the 
cooking spring lamb, the figs, fresh peas, mint 

As the trees put on their leaves, add yet another ring
the mother puts on the ghost grandmother’s coat
filled with blue-veined memories of the old country
of how she never celebrated birthdays, had no 
natal certificate but the one from the tree of life

Later, the mother would honor that seed by going to  
the upper orchard to plant, read the sacred text of bark 
her child holding new sprigs in her lent hands