The last of the pears dot the neighbor’s
yard, their taut green skins giving way
to brownish pulp. Yellow leaves flung
from wind-tossed branches scud across
our lawns like golden clouds — the sun’s
slim rays a decoration, a bit of gilding
with no real warmth. It seems the time
has come when all of life seeks its place
before the soil hardens beneath a skein
of frost and pale blue skies turn gray.
Even pear trees go dormant, dreaming
of budburst and blossoms — little green
bells swinging again, from every limb.
— Terri Kirby Erickson
