The Birthday of the Trees
Only on the fourth year after planting do we eat
the fruit.
Today we remember why
it is that we too are trees in the field,
emerging from wintersleep
about to bloom.
Bright star of apple blossom,
a memory in my pupils, cascade of pink white
in this bright kitchen where I have loved my children,
feeding them double cream and cherries,
cooking spring lamb with figs,
fresh peas and mint.
On this day I give thanks
for the years in each ring.
As the trees put on their leaves,
so I put on my ghost grandmother’s coat:
I have and hold her blue-veined hands
now. In the old country, she did not celebrate
her birthdays. Her only certificate—
the Tree of Life. I head to the upper orchard,
to read the sacred text of bark,
with these hands she has lent me.
ELIZABETH A.I. POWELL is the author of three books of poems, most recently Atomizer (LSU Press). Read more.