Carrying On

The hard green pears are heavy in the arms of the four wild trees.
I eye them high and unobtainable, the lowest branches just out of reach.

That is what you earn from determined old age,
Branches high enough to make your fruit unavailable to greedy
Hands and wanting tugs when you are not ready and ripe.

I used to take a long stick and shake the branches until
The pears fell with a hard, resentful thud,
And then bit into the unyielding flesh and the young taste of promise.

I’m so much more patient now and reluctant to disturb
The old pear trees with my insistent timing.
These mornings I walk past with a small reverent nod and carry on.
As I let the pear trees carry on with the guarding of readying time.