Green Pears

The pear trees are unusual.
Tall and upright as three aging gentlemen.
Their arms full of green wide-hipped maidens.
On tiptoes, I grasp and pull—one then two.

Here, I tell my companion.

Have one, I say, offering
A warm pear from my palm.

It’s July, she tell me,
Holding her hands behind her back.

I may not be here then, I think,
When they are ripest.
The crows call from the farthest branch.
I bite into the unforgiving flesh.

How is it, she asks.
Her face lit by sunlight.

I shrug, and roll the hard bits in my mouth.
Savoring the subtle taste of promises to come.
Like miracles, I tell her.
Like revelations in the dark.
I offer her the second pear again
As I take another bite.