Fruiting

A prickling fuzz of pears. In the
wire basket carried. My child
fingers swing it back and forth.
Can I forget

love?
In your soft dove grey gloves
cigarette smoke curling.
Slow water falling.
My head resting on your

lap. Grandmere what is
sadness? Sitting with distant
eyes. Girlish hearts spin a
story from your apron. With

no promise only whispers
asking. What do you see in
wisps of smoke? The yellow
Gitane burns to ash. In

silvery afternoon rooms
a hook pulling thread over
under knotting fleur de lis
silken as your tender heart.

Soft dove grey gloves
guide my fingers to the beloved
trees. Sweet scent is a memory
floating even now into a coil of

wire. I cannot understand the
fruit of rage, bitterness,
despair. It covers all the branches
here

in a dark orchard. My mind searches
for fruit or love. Only numbers cover
my name. I place my hand over my
eyes as a candle burns flickering
in a space

full of stars. The last time our
prayers drifted yellow as those
past gitanes. What is that
forgotten scent?

A ripened pear. I tremble holding
fast unwilling to fall.