In our townhome complex, trees
mask summer fruits in red leaves.
Then the ripest take their Brodies,
blacken sweetly the walkways.
Leaves and fruit got stripped
once for foam-snow; a Travolta
movie crew made each branch
iced Harrisburg. East Coast condo
winter, amuck in our green lanes.
The cherries came back, but not to eat
One outlander dad now brings ladder
and basket. Pilfering for his offspring?
Plucking treed secrets we want
to fist tight to our breastbones
—but never past cherry season?