The Sand Pear
The sun has descended Jersey’s belly
as I climb the hill to home.
A cold front presses Liberty Street.
An old woman flaps beneath a flood of light
like moth stripped of a wing –
swinging a rake at a hope of fruit.
Gusts wrestle her shag of
gray and the tree,
felling fat orbs by chance to earth.
Some she’d gather
in a bowl;
others escape her into the thicket.
From the brink of the yard
I holler my help in labored Cantonese,
and she springs to me.
No – she thanks me in odd dialect
and eager smile, palm bearing two golden pears.
The small one I take – and leave.
I wash the fruit and bring woman to mouth,
her plot of bitter melons and squash flowers,
her joy in hearing kindred tongue.
The images are so clear. The pacing of the narrative moves along perfectly. Thank you!
Frank, thank you for these complements!