Pyrus

The October breeze was welcomed

by the steep fall of a pear plummeting

from the tree—

stumbling the feet of brisk walkers

passing by rich tapestries of nature.

A sweet misstep in their daily destinations;

a moment to cozy warmth

in crocheted scarves

and two different hands in one

trench coat’s pocket.

One year later marked by the fall

of a new pear—

realizations absorb all senses

like the thick smell of woods.

It’s easy to become vulnerable this time of year.

To dismiss the gift of fruit at your feet on behalf

of it’s bruising—

to become the misstep for a passerby.

To be as a leaf bookmarking a memory;

colored on one side,

crinkled on the other.

Ready to be raked.

Ready to be burned.

From the collection, In the Fruit of Things

(an appropriate October poem)