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.