(for Gail and Amy)

Odd things appear
on the kitchen windowsill—
this week two apricot pits that,
if I had a compost pile, should go there,
or perhaps tossed with the loose tea
in the flowerbed where the rangy volunteers
might find some sustenance
in my leavings.

I watch the golden pits dry more each day,
skeletal ovals that produced something
luscious from Gail’s tree in the backyard
where we gather to exercise on Tuesday
mornings, this place of abundance
that she and Amy have made together.

I savored those apricots, wanting to
bite into them at their peak of sweetness,
feeling their gold fuzz on my lips,
not imagining that a week later
I’d still have the essence of what
made them, pearls from people
who share what grows around them,
whose arms, to my surprise,
open upon my arrival,
and mine open, too.