Pears

 

 

The worst is forgetting
what you love. Like pear halves
in heavy syrup, the ones I loved

as a kid on sweet summer days
that began with a mourning
dove cooing through river fog.

The worst is forgetting
the tiny lagoons whose shores
had never seen a footprint,

the softness of them between
the tongue and palate.
Tiny cellos in the womb

of summer days, the whole of July
stretched out like a shady road.
The worst is forgetting

what you love. The best
is remembering
now.

Comments

[Steve Frenkel]

Very evocative. I love it, Charlie.

[Charlie]

Thx Steve!

[trainwatcher]

We've lived completely different lives, you and I, yet your memories are often uncannily similar to mine, as though we both pasted the same clippings in our scrapbooks. You evoke and express those memories way better than I ever could, and thank you for that.