Sunday, July 1, 2012

A Pear Tree, Cleft for Me

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.


Laura said...

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.

Anonymous said...

I especially love the words
" it was big in a child's imagination and a man's memory"

Sandra Heska King said...

I loved that line, too, Nance. And, of course, the singing while she stirred.