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Little Pears
by Joanne Lowery
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Their skull shape distinguishes them
on the wood-chip path, next
their tarnished bronze color
and the panache of their perky stems.
I squint up into the brighter-than-August
more-golden-than-July sunshine
in search of a festooned tree
but see only leaves, fruitless branches.
Has the Great Pear God sprinkled
this half dozen of September's bounty
at random from Olympia Orchard?
I've brought one home, here at my desk,
pencil in my right hand while the left
learns about dry papery skin,
coon-nibbled dents,
the speckled slope, such tapering perfection.
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