Cultivar
Elizabeth Wade

Queen's Creek

Evergreen, the olive plant
So the bed grew up around her
The scarcity of desert predators
So the branches blossomed

Flowers arise on year-old wood
Each being she could not contain
Not susceptible to drought or flame
Each night unraveling

The fallen fruit cannot be used
The ones at the door
Most vibrant when cold pressed
The one whose handiwork held her

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