When sun­light falls on the pear
it becomes the meal of a long dead woman
with heavy sleeves and small dog. Smoke
from her chimney billows across the roof,
and the wind presses rags of it close
to the ground like the prover­bial waif
in the street. Still, the knife is sleek
and light, not of her world but mine,
and the sudden sight of a hawk
pluck­ing some­thing from the marsh
pushes both ways. I will eat the pear,
but not yet, not until the sun moves away
and lights up another color in the room,
color I would not crave without the snow
out every window and rafts of cloud
that join it in the blind­ing too much
white­ness. Gowns and dow­eries,
ivory keys, thighs, feath­ers, and mints.
Dark­en­ing gardens of danger, fecund
ser­vants pol­ish­ing. The pear belongs
to that world, and when I quarter it
and brush the black seeds into the depths
of a plastic bin, the pleas­ing shape
is gone, the soft innards sweet and wrong.