Wild Pears (#12)

“See,” I say excitedly,
Observing it myself
For the first time,
“That pear is pear-shaped!”
It’s April, and wild pears are
Burst into blossom—
Corpulently conical,
Sveltely plump—
Ovoid and, devoid of negative space,
As perfectly pearish as their fruit.

She can’t see it, however.
“You mean the trees?” she asks,
Seeing through the flowers
To the barely visible trunks and limbs.
But I can’t know this. So we go,
Back and forth to Culpeper,
So close to communicating.
It’s only when I demonstrably
Gesture the form into shape
That her eyes ignite with understanding.

It’s no surprise, then, is it,
When, working old floor boards
A week later, I ask her for
The digging iron, or pry bar,
—appellations via applications—
And she responds by saying,
“Oh, you mean the big nail!”
I’m instantly smitten,
For it is a big nail,

And for the first time
I see it too;
See how I didn’t
See it before,
See how I couldn’t;

See, as I am able,
How much is
Boldly hiding
In the bright blue light
Of a spring afternoon.

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