I steady the ladder while you snip
dangling dead branches from
the apple tree that leans over our garden.
Limbs crackle and snap as you work,
old wood in the brittle stage of decay.

We shift the ladder twice,
watch shade recede as we ease
the tree of its splintered boughs
so it can focus on reddening its apples.
I toss the detritus

into the yard waste bin, wheel it
back inside the garage. We sit
for a few moments in the garden,
notice the wild tomato plant snaking
through the poppies, loaded
with green fruit full of promise.

I think how much my father
would have liked this spot,
imagine him sharing a beer here.
His death anniversary is in two days.
I am not sad,

but grateful that when I think of
him, it’s because I feel love.
My body remembers everything,
has turned brittle grief into compost
that sustains a garden so well.