as winter loosens into bloom,
those yellowing, paper-pale leaves return
heart-shaped again; blushing red berries
ripen into thick damson-dark pulp,
falling from the branch
as though earth had called them home
summer exalted, then slowly thinning out
grandfather's house–
our boyhood barefoot on its branches
for stained fingers and sweeter ones;
some berries raw, some fully ripe,
some burst like memories now–
smiles we never knew were temporary.
seven years ago, we watched it go.
the old man–must have felt it too:
when something new arrives,
something worn quietly steps aside.
that tree had guided winds once,
stood through hailstones, departures,
season after season, people leaving.
standing, until its branches bent
under their own frost-years
an untouched memory–
almost forbidden now
as another mulberry strikes the lawn
thousands of miles away–
and for a second, the yard returns