In the Mugello
I
Pear trees, unpruned, but still producing fruit
Grew by the farm,
Leaves dusty yellow as the pears.
How many years since they had taken root?
I stretched my arm
To them as if across the years
And bring them back into the present day,
Clutching the form,
Pears that resembled rounded breasts
In sunlit marble flecked with dabs of clay.
But these were warm
And welcome to the hand as guests.
II
I brought them back to time,
The simple one of trees
Forgotten but still growing by a dusty lane.
An orchard ladder helped me climb
Towards the fruit and seize
It, saved from falling where it only would have lain.
