Trees

The first fall of my memory

I gathered acorns and samaras

And tucked them into dirt

Scooped into leftover coffee cans.

All winter, I watered desperate looking soil patches

Standing in a rusty red row of tin out back

Until spring, when spindly sticks emerged.

With my wobbly wagon rattling full of Folger’s cans

I walked door to door

And gave away trees with childish handwritten instructions:

Water, love, repeat.

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