Nathaniel Perry

It was a good idea, cutting away the vines and ivy, trimming back the chest-high thicket lazy years had let grow here. Though it wasn’t for lack of love for the trees, I’d like to point out. Years love trees in a way we can’t imagine. They just don’t use the fruit like us; they want instead the slant of sun through narrow branches, the buckshot of rain on these old cherries. And we, now that I think on it, want those things too, we just always and desperately want the sugar of the fruit, the best we’ll get from this irascible land: sweetness we can gather for years, new stains staining the stains on our hands.