Two score before my parents wed my father held the branches of three trees:
Peach, Apricot, Loquat; their sapping cylinders fresh leaking of life,
With his knife bore them holes together, and bound them with leftover string.
They grew entangled like the knots of unkept ambition, their fruition
Was never compromised by their scars. Here we are
Slack by our tendons, held together barely by bark
But you and I know the best part about broken branches.
They must grow back.