The Neighbor’s Pears

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

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