Forbidden fruit

I work sweating in the hot sun at the house pulling weeds from the gravel, either sitting, there are so many I can sit quietly and pull from the space all around me for quite some time, or crouched in that sitting on your heels asiatic position. It's meditative. Sometimes they yield gently and I feel compassion. Sometimes I have to pull with all of my strength. Those are cathartic.

It's been hay weather. We raked the the strimmed hay from the banks into piles for our neighbor, to pitch fork onto his tractor's trailer to feed to his horse. The other day he'd helped our son tie together your rangy fig tree tree so that the laden branches wouldn't break. Today we had to tear off two of those branches that had broken in the wind anyway. Your five varieties of fig are bearing a lot this year. They've just now matured. Your four pear trees are also laden with more fruit than they have ever produced. Your three cherry trees have borne, but the fruit was probably enjoyed by the birds, thankfully because I don't know what I would have done with it all. Your multitude of raspberry and blackberry bushes and strawberry plants have been overcome with weeds. Your walnut is now enormous. The ancient apple trees that you so lovingly saved, pruned and nurtured back to life are full, as is the newer. Fortunately the vineyard is being cared for by the neighbor. The quince and apricot are probably bearing too, I haven't had the heart to look at those, or your plum tree. It's overwhelming and heartbreaking and all I can do to assuage the pain is yank weeds in the hot sun.