Twice my trunk engorged, distended stretching bark to bend
& gape, sap glistening in each crevice, ready to burst out what begins new,
organisms birthed of my own volition. Two grew from me, their tethers & strides
lengthening, pulling elastic
thin until at once
a snap. Then another. Eight years
between
makes it easier.
Or does it? Mothering branches
in odd directions, roots exposed trip up even the most agile kin—skinned knees
& caught cloth, ripped by a dead limb, feeble where it breaks. Mistakes
bandaged, torn
seams sewn, but do I tell them
where tendencies come from? I admit
I may have helped them along or hindered, rather, by unruly root
or rigid bough. Should the apricots
fallen to the ground, worm
infested, be pleasure enough if
picked before?
They soften in the bowl or dry
on the rooftop looking out
over my craggy, curling gray—where
an early frost means no more fruit.
