The year you died your peach tree bore
more fruit than it could hold. The year
you became intimate with the earth, your tree
knelt in near piety from the burden.
The knell called down from the top of the hill.
In the church’s lap children continue
to swing up, up, and back again as
the bell tolled, tolled, and told.
As peaches swell your tree grows buckle-kneed.
Soon those left to tend to trees’
buckling knees will remove the coverings
from mirrors and break bread with you.
The year you died your peach tree bore
more fruit than it could hold.
The year you died the knell told your secrets
easing the burden as you were once again
held by your mother.