The apricot tree,
So solemn in its art of creation,
Yielding fruit by square yard,
And flower blossom come spring
Holding no pleasure in its perception.

If I am the apricot tree in the fields at dawn,
You are the ladder,
The picker,
The cook,
The sugar and pan
And the jar of apricot jam,

Preserved in its perfection
For hungry mouth and seeking hands
To endulge in, come harvest.
You are the countertop in the kitchen
And the residue of spills upon it,
Caused so carefree by fingers excited
To savor God's gift
Of orange fruit
And good will.

You are the warm home
Occupied by voices and laughter
And children so eager for the day
Their screams of joy echo each room.

You are the eyes onlooking
From inside the car,
Gazing out a moving window
At the bountiful apricot blossoms,
You are the artist and beholder,
The eyes of beauty
Which turn the tree's mundane
And ordinary life
Into poetry and light of human love.
The botanist, the lover of fruit and flesh,
Picking perfect apricots,
Plucking them not only at pure ripe
But all season,
For the sake of texture and sweet.

For the tree,
Bearing fruit and blossom
Has transcended from routine
To holiday.

Such a pleasure,
Being plucked and picked,
Pleased and appreciated in true apricot
Passion.

The tree loves the lover,
And the lover loves the tree.