Pome

Elizabeth Spires

From flowering gnarled（多节的，粗糙的） trees 

 they come, weighing down 

 the branches, dropping 

 with a soft sound onto 

 the loamy（肥沃的） ground. Falling 

 and fallen. That's a pome. 

Common as an apple. Or 

 more rare. A quince（柑橘） or pear. 

 A knife paring away soft skin 

 exposes tart sweet flesh. 

 And deeper in, five seeds in a core 

 are there to make more pomes（梨果）. 

Look how it fits in my hand. 

 What to do? What to do? 

 I could give it to you. 

 Or leave it on the table 

 with a note both true and untrue: 

Ceci n'est pas un poème. 

I could paint it as a still life, 

 a small window of light 

 in the top right corner 

 (only a dab of the whitest white), 

 a place to peer in and watch it 

 change and darken as pomes will do. 

O I remember days. . . . 

 Climbing the branches of a tree 

 ripe and heavy with pomes. 

 Taking whatever I wanted. 

 There were always enough then. 

 Always enough.