A
big tree, shading
the
front of the frame house,
or
part of it, anyway, it was big
in
a child’s imagination and
a
man’s memory, and it produced
pears,
bucketfuls of green pears,
tough
and often hard, even
when
ripe, cooking pears, not
eating
pears, harvested for pies
and
cobblers (extra sugar required,
and
cinnamon), poaching and
baking
pears, raw they were tart,
baked
they were sweet, and
she
would push back her white hair
as
she stood by the stove, stirring
the
pot of pears, putting
the
pear pie into the oven,
humming
Rock of Ages.
This
is another in the series of poems about growing up in the south, suggested by
my friend Nancy Rosback.
3 comments:
This brought back memories. We had one of those pear trees too when I was growing up. Too often, the fruit fell to the ground--of little use to anyone but the Yellow-jackets.
Beautiful.
I especially love the words
" it was big in a child's imagination and a man's memory"
I loved that line, too, Nance. And, of course, the singing while she stirred.
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