that March, both of us wondered
when life might let up a bit. after all,
it was Spring, which meant more light,

though even that, the light on our 
tired faces, felt unbearably heavy. because of 
this, & because you saw it in a dream,

we began to plant trees in our backyard.
first, the japanese plum, with its bright,
yellow-orange marble fruits like

hundreds of tiny suns. we called it ours
because we needed it to be ours,
because though we did not say it aloud,

we knew that being the keepers of
something so beautiful would mean that
we were kept too, in some 

silent & serious way. but still,
before April, the heaviness returned,
creeping slowly over us like

heaviness does, suffocating our small
joys. so I planted the orange tree, which represented
myself & refused to die, even when a storm

bent it nearly to the ground. then came 
the lemon tree, which did not mean anything
except that we wanted lemons,

& after that, the others: a fig, a mayhaw, a lime.
by fall, it was nearly impossible to walk
even a few steps without running into

branches. everywhere we looked, the blossoms 
promised us lightness. each morning, we
rushed our waking to check on the orchard.

it was a miracle, we insisted, that none
of them had been harmed beyond repair.
& us too, I said one morning, only

half-joking. the sun was streaked across 
our faces like an exhale, and everything,
(even each other, we discovered, after

kissing for the first time since February)
tasted sweet, like ripened joy.