Drought runs as a headline. Crops mature off season,
keeping farmers courting their fields with desperate
attention, dissolution threatened in limp stalks.
I thought, beyond the glass, my tree was a tree,
with no discernible attributes, a toss away seed
that found a home and stretched, providing a slit of privacy.
It is not a year of wonderment. Holes have been dug,
and I am too tired to fill them. But on that tree—nondescript
thing of wilted leaves that has never revealed its name—
hangs a single slash of red, a kiss of a cherry,
asking to be left or harvested,
I must decide, I have only one.