Within our walls this talisman grows old.
In the north-east corner, where demons loom,
it seeks chill time enough to later bloom:
such hours are fewer now and not as cold.
Each year the snowy corymbs soon unfold.
Then on pruned limbs a glossy crown makes room,
where fruit must strive to swell, not be assumed –
for heart rot saps the trunk, its bark shot-holed.
When loading grows too great, some must descend
unformed, like once good Christians fallen.
For while love’s tears get harder to requite
midwinter – from June on - draws in the light.
What pears remain wait patiently to ripen;
those dropped are best forgotten, odds and ends.
vi - viii. 2019
