Cultivating

I have long laboured
under the assumption
that growing,
becoming,
is an exercise
in accumulation.

Today as I labour even longer
chasing the insoluble
each morning, squelching
the fallen mulberries —
I feel keenly that this growth
is so much more
a study of loss.

The fruit is evidently ripe,
its sweet sanguine pearls
detonate underfoot. They bleed
running rivulets, pooling
in a crack between
two stone slabs.

By evening
it leaves a scab
by Sunday, scarcely
a stain.

I am thinking how
the tree bears fruit
each year, extending far
beyond itself
sprinkling its offerings
loosely, widely.

I wonder lately
if we can flower
in its image.