Some time ago, as tears I thought had dried dissolved into curve of smile,
I sprinkled my mother's ashes in my garden under the apricot tree,
From which we made amazing jam for many years to come.
Touch of cinnamon, of nutmeg, not too sweet...
One spring no buds appeared on that pleasing tree.
It was old, it died―as creatures do—tears then on gnarled branches.
A simple stump remains, marking. Nice to touch, sensing.
My mother winks at me, sometimes, from apricot jam on buttered toast.