"It's a shame about the weather," You said
as all the peach blossoms froze and fell.
And I looked at what was so freshly full of promise
now dead on the ground.

"There will be other years." I said
and thought about all the other planting I had to do,
Then went inside, warmed up some bread, popped open a jar
of preserves.

When you finally joined me at the kitchen table
I offered you a peace and told you about my Grandma's recipe,
the art of forgetting and remembering,
of savoring what's yet good,
and all the different loves.