Crawling rough trunks.
Twisting off orbs of sap —
sticky, soft and chewy —
nature's own taffy.
Dark translucent gold —
tangy, sweet, a taste
of the life that thrusts
blossoms into place,
of the life that fills
each luscious apricot.
Each bite a communion
with an unknown grandfather
whose apricots remain
for those of us who climb.
For Frank Masat