The Trees

grandma moves
with us.

she tends to us,
stomps on hornet's nests,
cuts down sugar cane,
waters trees.

she bends low,
checks the wintermelon on the vine
climbs high for figs -
our nomadic gardener.

I watch as she surveys her world
says goodbye to another empty sky.
I want to ask her,
can we bring the trees with us?

but I can't.
love isn't the harvest
it is the flower,
before the fruit.

this earth will be different
than the next.