Comice Pears

Comice pears,
the far flung shoes of pear trees,

sit on the windowsill
in the kitchen,

wearing their motley hides proudly
like the Florsheims my father wore on endless hospital rounds.

Unfortunately, I’ve let them sit too long.
Now they wait to sink,

musky and wineful,
into the compost pile

where maybe moles will enjoy them
on a savage mole holiday,

passing them drunkenly around the burrow,
slavering and telling of the time

when the river rose and flooded mole town
and whole mole clans became dinner for wildly happy crows.

4 responses to “Comice Pears

  1. I like the bizarre leap this takes: from understated nature poem to surreal disaster story!


  2. Melissa Shaw-Smith

    Love it–especially the drunken, reminiscing moles.


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