The apricot tree has always been my mother's guarded treasure.
It's her holy bush.
I'm like: Come on mom, it's lived its whole life in a box in the backyard.
Though I must admit, its braided trunk gives it a look of
"Wisdom beyond its years."

But I also think it's a little bit conceited,
Ever since the Greeks called it "ambrosia."
And "stonefruit" just sounds so pompous -

It's time to pick the apricots before they fall,
Mom would say on a Saturday morning.
And we would.
Dried and frozen and jammed and pureed and made into ice cream,
Their slow, inky smell filled the house.

This year Mom is on some pockmarked French highway,
While apricots are melting on the back patio.
Squished and mooshed by heels and toes and paws
The sun chars them cherry-black, like gobs of dried blood.
The ants had better put their shoulders to the wheel,
And the bluejays can't believe that after eight years of nets and brooms,
The tree of life has been reopened to the public.

My ruddy dog just took an afternoon nap on her back,
And now has a crusty apri-spot on her rump.
We keep touching it and laughing,
But dogs don't play into that kind of stuff,
She just rolls her eyes and walks into the living room.
"Bath," I call. Yeah, that always gets a reaction.
She knows two words - "bath" and "walk,"
Like ying and yang,
The streets of gold and the gulf of misery.

Last year's apricots are still in the freezer,
And this year promises to be a bumper crop.

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Copyright © 2005 by Calaveras Station and the CSUS English Department.