The Unidentified Tree Grows Fruit

The Unidentified Tree Grows Fruit

Peeking through the last branch
I see it by mere chance,
glancing up to check the clouds.

Two days later
I call it plum or plume, lick the cool skin
with my tongue, there is something erotic
about wanting yet leaving it there to grow,
to fall to the ground.

At night I say to my lover,
do you remember the cherries in Paris,
the rain falling through the window near the day bed
and the ripe, red world?

My lover has never been to Paris.
Once we took the children to an island
off the coast of Lake Superior,
when the children believed us friends,
who held hands secretly,
who made love quietly

while the birds slept,
and the girls grew round.

The tree is old,
nothing is expected,
the leaves fall, then return.

Somewhere there is a country
where the streets are always wet with rain.