Sheltered by young cypresses
and thick-leaved olive trees,
a plum tree stands in my family garden.
The knobby branches hold clusters
of round, juicy plums in summer
so heavy they twist. The smiling crop
persists for a month at least;
the taste is so sweet, it enhances
the strength of the gods. It invites
humans, bees, birds to its feast,
the lonely butterflies to swing
among teardrop-shaped leaves.
The old trunk sustains
the plant’s abundance
from its northern side. It is hollow
behind, where the wood has gone
to the sky – in my heart –
to make the harp for my father
who planted the tree a lifetime ago.