The pear tree is hardly taller than I am,
branches bent with ripe fruit
mottled gold and brown.
Each pear plucked
is a welcome
weight in the hand,
in the basket. Even
rotting fruit at my feet
is a celebration of hornets.
I think of these pears
in the mouths of children I love.
I squint at my neighbors’ homes,
recently shadowed by Trump signs,
want to offer this sweetness to them all,
want to ask blessings to cover every one of us.
Instead I carry the pears inside. This division is on me, too.
Laura Grace Weldon authored two books. She lives on Bit of Earth Farm where she spends too much time reading, cooking weird things, & singing to livestock. Connect at lauragraceweldon.com or @earnestdrollery
