#oh yeah historically agricultural workers have been some of the most exploited groups & of course it hasn't changed

[laneaconite]

Flora Meets Fauna

We grew up in a house at the top of a hill, With a yard that stretched on, long and wide. Divided in thirds by graying wood fences and the metal arched trellis built for sweet morning glory to climb. Speckled by fruit trees, Overgrown with juniper and rubber rabbitbrush. I can still feel the soft puncture of powder blue juniper berries and the crush of their cones hidden inside.

I have vivid half-memories of that skinny mottled trunk, Dark amber bark glowing red in the setting sun. A decade and a half after the tree died of natural causes, My mother says she never got to taste its cherries. It was only us: Myself, my sisters, who climbed up to nestle in its branches And feast upon the fruit hidden within. It was only us, and squadrons of orderly red ants scavenging low hanging fruit and the birds who picked at the crown only they could reach.

Only us, climbing up into her trembling limbs, Bark stretched and split like old scars. We picked and ate anything left, brushing leaves out of our faces And spitting the pits onto the ground below. I can’t remember how they tasted, But their absence sits like a stone in my heart.

All the trees shed their leaves and went dormant every winter, It was clockwork, we knew just how to Rake the leaves into a pile, bag them up before they rot beneath the snow. When we didn’t, we would learn just how much harder the ground could grow And what it meant to starve the perennials. The trees went dormant every winter and we waited for the warmth, And we waited for the cherries, But then came spring, summer, and autumn—

Our peach tree was a thing of beauty: It grew sidling on top of the hill, nestling against lilacs. The trunk was broad and divided low into strong, heavy branches. Wrapped in elder gray-brown lenticels, growing lighter in color As it reached for the sky. Its youngest branches shone bright green, fading to red— budding fragrant, verdant, oblong leaves. Every other year it bore a bounty of gorgeous Golden fruit, exquisitely sweet. The pink and yellow flesh was soft and sun-warmed, And the juice streamed all the way down to my forearms, After just the first bite. Yielding against my front teeth. I can still feel the bristly peach fuzz Which coated my arms as we picked Plastic laundry pails full of fruit to feed the whole family.

My parents did all in their power to keep this tree alive, Wrapping her sagging old branches together, dressing her wounds, Building a support structure to hold her up. But God knows how long she served that house— Or whose original hand lovingly raised her from the ground— But our tree was doomed from the start. For her greatest branch extended beyond our yard.

For a decade or so, the exchange worked: He could take all of the peaches that grew on his side, A bounty and blessing we nourished. And for ages I couldn’t imagine what could compel him To saw that gorgeous branch off and discard it, Leaving our beautiful tree bereft, bleeding honey-colored sap. But it’s a simple, philistine answer: he didn’t like children, Or seeing our overgrown back garden beside his perfectly mowed lawn. He built a ten foot fence, And the peach tree died that same summer.

Another decade passed and Her skeleton still stands there, brittle branches reaching up Like twisted aching fists into the sky. The birds still perch upon its ghost, and mom hangs feeders With seeds and homemade nectar from her stable center.

-Lane Aconite, Original draft written April 25th, 2023 Edited March 14th 2024

Hello my lovely readers, this is another poem of mine that's been edited so significantly from its original that I wanted to include my first draft below the cut. The story the poem above tells is a more grounded and nuanced emotionally, as well as more vivid in its imagery. It captures the scope of the story in a more honest way than my first version, which was too soaked in the acerbity I was feeling at the time. I just didn't have the energy to give it my all like I do now.

We grew up in a house at the top of a hill, The yard was speckled by fruit trees. After the tree died of natural causes My mother says She never got to taste its cherries. It was only us: Myself, my sisters, and squadrons of orderly red ants Who climbed the trunk and feasted on the low hanging fruits And the birds who picked at the crown only they could reach.

Only us, climbing up into the trembling Grey-brown branches. We picked and ate anything left, Spitting the pits onto the ground below. I don’t remember how they tasted, But I remember their absence keenly.

The peach tree was a thing of beauty The trunk broad, thick, and divided Low into strong, heavy branches, With fragrant, verdant, oblong leaves. Every other year it bore a bounty of gorgeous Golden fruit, exquisitely sweet. The yellow and pink flesh was soft and sun-warmed, And the juice streamed all the way Down to my forearms, After just the first bite. I can still feel the bristly peach fuzz Which coated my arms as we picked Laundry pails full of fruit.

My parents did all in their power To keep this tree alive But it was old, and doomed, For a great branch extended beyond our yard. And for a time, the exchange worked: He could take all of the peaches That grew on his side, A bounty and blessing we nourished. I can’t imagine what compelled him To saw that great branch off, Leaving our beautiful tree bereft, Bleeding honey-colored sap. The peach tree died that same summer.

The truth of the matter is yes, both trees died. I can't eat peaches from the grocery store because they're picked early in the season to be shipped across the country and ripened artificially using ethylene gas. This method only penetrates the outer layer of the fruit, so they look pretty but appearances can't hide how hard and sour their flesh becomes the closer you bite toward the pit. Artificially ripened fruits can also be toxic to workers producing them and the consumer depending on the chemicals used. The summer sun's just irreplaceable. The cherry tree was chopped down, the trunk left partially standing in a shape somewhat like a seat. I used to sit there sometimes to write in my journal. A surprise peach tree sprouted up in the middle of my parents' greenhouse from a spat peach pit, or one that rolled down the hill while picking. They had to move the greenhouse to the opposite side of the hill, digging out a huge recess to fit it, just so this new tree would thrive and bear fruit. I helped in moving the greenhouse, but moved away that autumn. The new peach tree bore her first fruit that year, and even more the next, but I still haven't had a chance to visit and taste a real peach again.