VALLEY OF THE HEART’S DESIRE

As kids my mother’s mother

and my father both cut apricots

in the cradle of Los Altos Hills.

“My childhood” he says

of the old orchard that is now

a CandyLand-themed mansion,

the donkey long dead.

He rode his bike and played pranks

with Tony Ariolla,

worried about Russian submarines

emerging from the swimming pool.

 “I don’t know” or “I don’t remember”

is what my grandma tends to say

when I ask about her life.

But now Mr. Smith’s house

is a historic museum

so we read about the fruit she cut

for school clothes money 
on plaques:

The ripest apricots were reserved

for drying, pitted indoors, 
trays on racks, racks in sulfur sheds,

then under trees to dry. 
Flies everywhere.

The green fruit was marked

for canning and syrup.

“Green yesterday, rotten tomorrow”.

We leave the museum and drive by

Google, Netflix, Intuit headquarters.

Beyond the parking garages

the hills are dry

and alive.