The Tree House
My pear tree
grows tall
straight
budding
without fruit
good only
for bird feeding
watching
shading grass
on hot days
with dogs
flowering
on spring mornings
like a neighbor’s
Bartlett
where you
helped
pound stairs
in a crooked
trunk
because
you knew
how long
I needed
to jump
on a pogo stick
after
a meal
smelled
so much like
me
half-ripe
in summer
pear juice rolls down my
chin.
After
the Storm
The
pear tree cracks
soft trunk opening
into milk coffee
broken
rings swirl
a spoon chases
melting sugar
cubes
bark scatters
black grounds soiling
a Formica lawn.
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