Neighbors across the street

have grapefruit, we have

oranges; this month we meet

halfway to begin the swap,

one color for another,

of our respective crops.

Some celebrate with liquor;

we repair to the garage,

bring down the dusty picker

and circle our laden tree.

Its lower limbs the girls

will glean—for Susan and me

it’s the tree’s upper reaches

that challenge. Threading

a way through the branches

to capture the highest globe

is to contain the sun

in a basket. Our fondest hope:

to catch down all the fruit

before the citrus rats

out-harvest us. It suits us,

my neighbor and me, to wage

this winter contest.

The shape of the picker cage

mimics a handshake; all year

the barter confirms:

good friends, good will, good cheer.

—Robley Wilson