by J.R. Solonche
Far longer than these houses beyond them,
they have stood in their row on this ridge,
now filled to overflowing with fruit,
a seven-branched candelabrum
ablaze with the green-gold fire of pears.
But they are never picked. At least,
I have never seen anyone come out
to pick the pears. Instead they ripen
and fall to the ground. The deer, those
nervy enough to cross the road, eat some.
Some are crushed by the cars. The rest,
hundreds, just rot where they lie, the same
way all the hours I have wasted, hundreds,
leak their sweetness out around my feet.