Carried Away
one year I walked out the back door toward the pear tree
and saw how it recognized me much like the horses
that used to collect beneath it and call out but now were gone
and it was just the tree growing imperceptibly taller growing pears
because it had to because it knew I wanted them even if
the horses weren’t there nibbling what they could reach or what I
threw over the fence even if wasps were of course still making
the gathering dangerous but I bent to the task being sure
to put on shoes keeping my hair out of the way enough to see
where my hands were going the pears were ripe and aromatic
so I couldn’t blame the wasps though they seemed to blame me
but now it was really just the tree and me now that it seemed
I had become known maybe the tree liked the pressure my feet
provided maybe my smell was pleasant or the tree appreciated
my appreciation of the way it had flowered like a slow display of fireworks
as bees worked the blossoms spreading pollen from anthers
onto the stigma and the ovary beneath it which sat like its own kind of
pasha I was the tender of that patch of earth the tree was the god
a benevolent one a giver a bringer sometimes that year things
worked that way a kind of blessing shimmered inside and out
and I was the one who put it in a bucket and carried it away