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.