Pears

I.

You used to be in love with a boy who had a pear tree

in his backyard. He put his hand over yours the day

he showed you how to pick fruit. Together, you held

pears. Your wrists tilted horizontally. Skin sugared

by August heat. He said ready fruit would

let go. Ripeness surrendered into your hands.

II.

My great-grandfather learned how to garden when

he was a boy growing up in Italy. He brought everything

he knew to American soil. Dug for traces of home.

Discovered evocations in ivy. Tomato vines. Found

memories beneath fig, plum, apple, olive, cherry,

and pear trees. He clenched broken branches of the past.

III.

Everyone remained inside during one of the worst

hurricanes in Massachusetts’ history. Everyone

except my great-grandfather. Instead, he gathered

rope from the cellar. Tied himself to the trunk

of his pear tree. Determined

to defend it. And he did.

IV.

I lost track of how many days I spent searching

horizons. Talking to no one but myself. Found

more comfort crying in front of

reflections than him. He never loved rain.

I never loved him

enough to tie a single knot.

I let go and blue skies surrendered into my hands.