We grew peaches that year
When she left us.
Never has a harvest been better.

Said she loved the smell of the orchard;
Spent days lost in the fields;
Hardly spoke but to the trees.
Lips sealed and sewn shut
By the time they bore their fruit.
Done up with a neat little stitch.
The kind Grandma said,
“Don't never come loose.”
Cotton thread held tight.
Its pink much too bright on pale lips.

That fall, after harvest,
She dyed her hair.
Burgundy.
To match the leaves, she'd said.
I never told her,
But the maples turned that year, just
Three filthy shades of brown.

By New Year's chill, her irises
had turned.
Now grayer than they were blue
Closer in color,
to the sludge.
Which they begged us to call snow.

Spring left her in the garden
Crushing Momma's favorite lilies,
Pricking fingers on the roses; crying
Out to just the crows.
Whispering to the peaches; softly
Brushing palms against the tree bark.

Spent the solstice with the crickets.
Days perched up high,
Atop her favorite branch.
Told me she loved it there because
You could see the whole orchard,
Without moving a muscle.
She slept safely beneath the branches.
Pa couldn't bring her inside.

She sang for days
and months on end.
With only fruit to hear her call.
The sound beautiful,
Relieving,
Terrifying.
As it broke free from tired lungs.

We grew peaches that year,
When we lost her.
Never has a harvest been better.

They said the ashes helped the trees grow.