Pear, a Contemplation

Some things tell us what they are not,

like the pear, pregnant with gravity,

its fallen stomach nothing like a plum

or apple, its greenness surrendering hard

to sweetness, its meat bespeaking sand,

but not.

The pear

cannot roll off the table without effort.

It sits

in the palm with handy ease,

peers out,

the pretense of escape

showing on its neck.

Nothing special, nothing easy

in its swaying on the tree

whose limbs are not hung heavy

with a sleeping snake

as though posed for Audubon,

waiting for something better

to swallow.

Only a pear

heavy and content,

as though about to drip from the tree.