Hose in hand, watering plants
in Mom’s back yard on a day so
mild it hardly qualifies as summer,
I look up at the tree that’s grown
there for decades, dark green
leathery leaves shading oblong
’quats snuggled in trios, some of
the fallen already underfoot.

And, as I aim the hose at two nearby
hydrangeas lacing out elegantly,
something in me stirs, urges me
to pluck a ripe fruit from its birthplace,
splash it with the hose, take a bite.

I’m sure I’ve had loquats before,
but today, standing in afternoon
sun, thinking about deadheading
Mother’s roses that popped out
so vibrantly only weeks ago,

spitting out first one ’quat pit,
then the other, each as smooth as
a surf-washed pebble in my mouth,
I think, Not bad, these cousins
of plums and apricots, unable to
recall why I’d spurned them in
previous years.

Maybe, like that boy who rode
the bus to school with me every day,
whom I barely registered—one day
his sweetness caught my attention,
and then all I could think about
was how I might arrange to put
myself in his presence again,

how, on this summer afternoon
a half century later in my mother’s
yard, the taste of loquat soft in my
mouth, within sight of the spot
where the bus once stopped twice
a day, I can summon the freckles
on that cute boy’s face, envision his
winning grin.