Our poor lemon tree is losing leaves,
letting them fall to the hardwood
we have stained watering it.
The sun pours hard through the curved
southwest window and the tree
looks out to the distant poisonous
lake, its leaves curled random and
unhappy on the floor's marred sheen. How
hot it gets and we forget to water. But
two small white puckered buds show
on a single branch. This is
the second time in sixteen years
it has flowered, tried to fruit.
We wait. We grew it from seed, our
early bet hardening over the years,
years longer than the decade bet on.
My husband as always siding
with abundance, optimism, and me as
always grim and certain, unbending
in the dry and difficult world.
From Mapping the Chaos (1995) by Rhea Tregebov.