Of Apricots in the Late Spring

Armenian dirt, Hawaiian dirt, Indian dirt, and water --
I fumble to scoop them up with a knife
and spread them on my toast,

and when I do this, I do it in remembrance of home,
of the gurgling sweet goo in the brass-bottomed pot
and the old blue ladle stained brown
by years and years of soup,
of the banged-up metal funnel
and the rubber-rimmed lids bouncing in hot water,
of the foam, the soft stuff spooned,
gleaned from the top of the pot for ritz crackers,
of the popping and the turning upside-down
and the storing-away downstairs
in the dark, dark store room, and
of you, walking in the door with one million pounds
of apricots in the late spring.