We are used to each other, the flowering quince and I.
Neighbors now for over thirty years, we glimpse each other in
flashes
separated by long, oblivious stretches
all summer, next to this tree
I drank in my morning coffee and early skies
Our moods suited each other
she glowed pink with blossoms
and hummed, full of bees
until summer turned her lush and green
Her branches quieted,
as did mine
Good neighbor,
she knocks when needed.
Today, I look up and there she is—
Instead of a casserole or cup of sugar,
her arms, still green,
hold a scatter of yellow leaves
which fall at her feet
reveal the deep red fruit
growing all along
hidden
among bird nests and green shadows
She came to remind me
we all—woman, tree, everyone else—
work and change and grow
even when nobody else
notices and now
it’s time to pull in to our roots
drink up this summer sun
Ripen
and turn towards autumn
Puff Of Smoke Poems 