Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Sonnet #107

I planted seeds of Jujube, I kept exactly one

I grew her in a pot a while, The spiny spires rose
It demanded little care, just placement in the sun
When she became too big, I chopped down dead cenizos
She's in a desert spot, rarely watered, never fed
I merely mulch the base of her and pray for rain
Which rarely comes. By all rights she should be dead
A foreign, spindly trunk, a tough thorny palm of pain
Of beautiful yellow flowers twice a season for the bees
Of grape-sized little dumplings green, at first
Tart and sweet, when ripened into a deep mahogany
No named cultivar, just a wild seedling, worst
of all the fruits to grow, but tenacious and strong
I pluck the drying fruits for tea and sing a grateful song.

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