The pears have ripened.
They are firm as idols.
Every branch makes obeisance
To its fruit. A light wind
Holds the gold flesh in its fingers.
The stems neither glue themselves
Fiercely nor do they break at touch.
Their adhesion is now perfect.
The time of this phenomenon is brief
Next week will see
Windfall rivers in mottled light.
The pure scent of pears
Like fairest flesh, like clearest water,
Suffused with the antique odor
Of love beginning to bruise.
We walk through the pear orchard.
Summer is almost over.
The nights are cooler.
The trees shudder with golden tears
As if a goddess in the root
Whispered of waste and winter.
An oracle
Mists along the distant river.
Its truths go up in smoke.
We have been here.
We have been here.
Windless Orchard
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