Fruit Tree

I was five years old
when I found her floating,
a small surprise—
bloated, upside down,
mouth agape.

Bury her in the yard
where the daffodils grow,
Mama said,
plant her like a seed—

In spring, a tree will grow—
in summer, petals fall
like gilded snow.
By autumn every branch
will sag
with goldfish,

we’ll gather them in bowls—