Years since it bore an apricot.
Many more since it bore many.
Half the trunk rotted, fallen,
gathered in the windrows by the field.
On mossy branches raspberries
grow, making rainbows.
But every spring, around
my mother's yahrzeit
it remembers (as do I)
and blossoms in the palest pinks
fiercely, profusely, fragile.
Nothing will come of it, as nothing
comes of me, except forgetting,
except small bits of me riding away
on petals on the wind.