Peach and plum drop
tiny unripe fruit scarcely
bigger than a stone and I
gather them for compost and
to ward off rot and fruit flies.
Yes, you look to the trees and see
summer declared by these
signs of fruit. But why this
kamikaze harvest flung
senselessly early? And how many
will remain patient on the branch
until time in its fullness bids them fall?
The Consolations of Writing 