Jane:
Pears
In the nameless
and forgotten time
between the holidays
when the weather no longer
keeps me huddled close
to the hearth
and I must carry on
business as usual
inspite of the rain
it is the pears that continue
to glow with promise -
each one perfectly ripe and
mellow as moons
in their straw basket.
They anoint my breakfast
nestle in the lunch salad
celebrate the evening
in close communion
with the remaining cheese.
They come every year
the pears
unsigned but I suspect
from a friend
who can ill-afford the gift
and yet once they have arrived
there is nothing to do
but eat them with deep gladness.
Ah, that is so beautiful. I am going to pause, and let this poem have its own posting on the blog. The scent of pears is overwhelming, ambrosia of the gods and goddesses. Stanley will be in the next posting. I don't want to overwhelm with the beauty and scent of pears.