Eight birds in the peach tree
until the cat gets one,
and then they flee.
It’s frustrating that the birds never
return to the same fruit twice.
I’ve had to pick too early,
in order to salvage any.
It seems all wrong that fruit ripens
in summer,
when it’s too hot to can or bake.
I remember my mother sweating over jam,
I tried it once and failed.
I make freezer jam instead,
it has a prettier color
though it takes a lot of sugar.
I have a policy against baking,
a personal rule.
But here I am breaking my rules,
as usual. My pies do not turn out
that great, which does nothing
to slow our consumption.
Today I will harvest again,
I like that part.
Stainless bowls in the grass,
so lovely I stop to photograph them.
Picking. Eating.
That’s all I need.
The waiting cat beneath the tree