The fruit is
burgeoning on red
just like the horizon
in this hour after school
where brisk hands
pluck the ripest,
fill a bucket or two,
from the small grove of trees,
under low sun
and high giggles,
on small ladders
with enough reach
to get at anything hanging,
in a ritual so many
generations deep by this,
the hands today
mimic those of so long ago,
are the living memories
of ancestors long dead.
