Old Poem (Oct., 2000)

A Pear Year, A Bare Year

The third year that the pear trees didn’t bear,
She cursed them, and poured salt around their roots.
“If you won’t bear fruit,” she said, “then, damn you, die.
I hope I never see another pear.”

Of course, you know what happened: the next year
There were so many pears that limbs broke off;
Some of them weighed a pound and a half or more,
Those big hard sweet ones that make good preserves.

She claimed she had known exactly what they needed,
Something in salt that worked like lime or potash.
The orchard had the last word, though; next spring
Every pear tree was dead as four o’clock.