Judy Herzl
Apricots in 14 parts
1.
Apricot, mother’s favorite, lilacs too
I said yes to the house she died in
it had both
and that spring they carried me
2.
Apricots: mother’s passion
with delicate orange flesh
the inside of sunshine
the color of wholeness
rooted in what is good
3.
Climbing tree
knees scraping against bark
cats sleeping in branches
then walking across reaching rooftops
where boughs extend in brilliant
cacophony of springtime fruition
4.
slipping out in the dark of night
under its canopy, I’m looking up
moonlight rains through the shape
of branches and leaf and bud becoming fruit
blossoms smell of our becoming
what we are meant to be
interrupted by the wild spring snow
they often do not make it
the inevitable happens
the fruit a rare pleasure
5.
dappled light on a golden wall
sun coming through in patterns
recognizable and familiar
the language of trees
poking their way inside
into that wordless opening of morning
6.
Memory
looking out my apartment building window
at the lone tree living in the backyard next door
an anomaly
in a row of apartment buildings
the single family home, a hold-out
that tree, my friend, if only through the window
when they cut it down, I cried
making way for another apartment building that looked just like mine
7.
100 years old or more
apricots the size of peaches
and that one year where we only got two
from a tiny branch closest to the ground
it must have stayed warm enough
to keep those two buds from freezing
in the storm that killed everything else
8.
On the lucky years
we called ourselves filthy rich
in apricots, friends picking on tall ladders
baskets filled with golden fruit wrapped around soft brown pits
exchanging recipes
then making dressing with tarragon and rosemary and fruit smashed
buckets of rotting fruit in all phases of decay
our compost pile rejoicing in a sugar dose
9.
Once a year
the birthday tree holding money with clothes-pins
usually the lower ones made for an easy pick
cards and messages and poems hanging, colored ribbons fluttering in the wind
place of shelter and home
the boy growing alongside the tree
10.
thinking it must be the cat making a thump
we heard in the night during a wet winter storm
eerie beauty
in place of the usual morning greeting
instead branches pressed against the window
in black and white stillness tumbled snow and wood lines
11.
the tree lying on its side
(I don’t understand)
straddling the entire yard
crushing grill and tables
branches punching through the bathroom window
as if to say outside is no longer other
12.
rotting inside the trunk and heavy wet snow
barrenness and unpleasant views into the neighbor’s yard
hearing unnecessary conversations
missing that rumble of branches, birds and cats
all at once in ear’s view
refuge no longer
13.
huge trunks in a feeble circle
begging for a campfire or storytelling
a husband’s attempt to soothe the loss
around a very young apricot tree
bought by a friend in an attempt to replace
what is irreplaceable
14.
the wood burns slowly
not like pinon or pine
burning softly, not hot,
it goes and goes
gives and endures
