I remember walking the orchard rows
and picking ten flowers from ten apricot trees,
then opening them with my thumbnail,
one by one, peeling back the white petals
to reveal the telling heart. In some,
the pistil and style were still green,
in others, shriveled and black.
We could estimate percentages—
how much of the crop had survived.
It takes only a half an hour for a killing frost
to render barren dozens of acres of trees.
And what of the human heart? If it
had blossoms, could we count them, too,
and say after a cold spell, what chance
love had of staying on the tree? Is it
simply a matter of degree? And duration,
too, of course. Or is there something more?
Sometimes the loss of fruit is a blessing—
the tree can only support so much.
But is it the same with love? Is there
a kindness in loss? Or is love not like
the cherry tree, not like the apricot?
Does it want only to thrive, to blossom,
to offer as much as it can?
And let’s say there is no fruit.
Trees still need water, need nourishment.
So much investment for what looks
like a season when nothing will ripen.
Tell yourself, one season is not
the life of an orchard. Tell yourself
sometimes it’s worse than it seems.
Sometimes there’s life high up in the tree.
Sometimes it’s a killing freeze.
