asked by the grapes for a lift to the sky through its branches that shade its low growing friend, the peach tree responds with unusual strength and limbs that spread like a wired vineyard fence

and draws the honeybees to its sweet blossoms that every year are threatened by frost, blossoms that grow into plump golden fruit if there is no danger from freezing or drought

that first year of great bounty spent slicing, peeling, canning succulent sweet fruit into jars, until with fingers bleeding and sore the rest became wine

from branches out of my reach, a few unpicked fruit drop to the fertile garden soil and a new generation is planted