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.