where I planted an orchard,
a patch of brown straw sticking up where
I expected to pull pits out of peaches,
ripe heads of weeds swaying where
I intended to preserve endless summer.
My tears are the rain on the grass where
I planned to taste sweetness.
I will harvest the grass worth nothing to anyone,
and with the damp reeds and wet strands, I
will weave one basket-- then another.
My work is a bare hilltop
where I will plant an orchard,
a patch of earth where
I will tend new trees,
ripe peaches hanging where
I pruned small branches.
My laughter is the rain on the orchard where
I climb my ladder to the top of each tree.
I will harvest the fruit worth something to everyone,
I will carefully pluck each one, I will set it it in this basket.
I will fill one --then another.