has been nursing these two trees
for as long as I can remember.
In spite of the dust,
in spite of the drought,
because of Ma’s stubborn care,
these trees are
thick with blossoms,
delicate and
pinky-white.
My eyes can’t get enough of the sight of them.
I stand under the trees
and let the petals
fall into my hair,
a blizzard
of sweet-smelling flowers,
dropped from the boughs of the two
placed there
in the front yard by Ma
before I was born,
that she and they might bring forth fruit
into our home,
together.
May 1934