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  • I was sitting under my father's lemon tree when I read about the cherries. Your cherry tree.
    He puts up his little step ladder every day to reach out to the lemon clusters right at the top of the tree. He plucks them off leaving a bit of the stalk and a leaf with the fruit, they look better on ma's ceramic that way, he says.

    Lean, firm straight branches reach out and fragment and further fragment into uncountable ends.
    I asked him why he was leaning over so far to get to the fruit when there were so many at reach where I was sitting, my pillow propped against the three forking branches at the base. He came down with his basket, took down his ladder and walked back into the house.
    'Those ones are for you. They're fun to pick, the low hanging ones', he said.
    Low hanging fruit. So this is what they looked like.
    And then you wrote it out for me,
    '...When the sun shines I pant in your greenish shade.
    When it rains I hide under your stiff, handsome leaves.

    I am not worthy.'
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