Few summers ago we held the tree close

Its trunk against our chests, its warmth rose

to our toes, our fingers, and our flushed cheeks

in a way that left us helpless and weak

then painted our skin in bright mellow shades

of orange, soft pink, lavender and bade

us such fond afternoons. What we loved most

though were the apricots the tree had lost.

We eagerly plucked the fruit off the ground

held them handful in our hands, round and round

in our pockets, our palms and in our homes

and carry them everywhere, even to foams

of our bathtubs. We carried their fresh green

and deep orange and light red – their skin clean

like the sun bursting into many rays.

We kept the sun in our hands, so it stays.

 

When the summer was over the tree bore

nothing, except autumn-stained leaves and more

warm fuzzy feelings that longed for traces

of the cicadas but only braces

us for impending wasteland of December

branches. But we will always remember

the warmth the apricot left on our palms

the sweet scent of the fruit that made us calm.