Nothing ever comes
of this tree, not
fruit, for the squirrels
steal it before

it ripens, not
shade, for its dead wood
was cut out, leaving little
else, certainly not

beauty, its sparse blossoms
comical near the oak.
And it gives so much
we don’t want: sharp

spears scraping
the siding, a bridge
the raccoon climbs
to our chimney,

and in September the acrid
odor of rotting fruit.
Nothing
can recommend it. Still,

we keep it because
it’s old, or the blade
of the axe is too dull,
or we wonder

what would we do
with the wood. . . . But I think
we keep it because
we remember a time

much younger, the house
heavy with heat
and anger. A breeze
came, and we found ourselves

in the yard, surprised by a gold
globe in the cool
darkness, and reached up
together, eager

to take it, the juice
spilling from tongues and fingers,
and nothing had ever tasted
so sweet, so good.