Sometimes I wonder
if trees mourn their fallen fruit.
Do they fondly remember
the weight of what they grew,
or grieve the absence
of what they could not keep?
Do they know when to let go,
or do they simply trust
that something sweet was worth growing?
Is grief an artifact of love,
or the fruit of joy?
Perhaps grief is the testament
that they were with us.
And if grief is the fruit of joy,
I hope to live a life
with branches heavy enough to break.
