How many times I’ve passed them in the produce aisle
fearful their unblemished skin conceals
blandness, disappointment.
I walk away sure they are not as good as they appear.
For the first time in our marriage, fruit trees in the backyard,
one finally revealing its identity.
In summer my day could revolve around this tree.
Pears lie on the ground each morning, with precise gnaw marks,
sharp incisors from raccoon, rat, or possum. I’m amazed
every pear tastes sweet and juicy no matter how battered
with warts, tattoos, and scratches.
The worm hole is an entrance to a sugary abode.
Fat caterpillar curled in its bed of food,
the ultimate luxury. The pears unite us
over what to do with such nourishment.
Pears fall in their circle of plenitude,
dog chasing the ones we toss into the compost.
And us trying to keep up with the bounty.
Love Story of Pears
