by Christopher Flowers
When I climbed Bradford Pears;
plucked sour grapes from vines
pasted to leaning trellis,
colors shifting fandango
at the onset of spring—
ducked parallel clotheslines,
wires buzzing like guitar strings,
wooden pins as picks;
the various, buzzing chords
of post-sermon visits—
Matriarch, apron fluttering,
you gathered only the ripe,
those tumbling across mossy earth
like acorns. Showed me proper
ways to savor split fruit, crisp nectar.
That winter, trapped indoors
with space heater and television
flicker, you emptied your purse:
cascade of change, lipstick, earbobs;
like a blackened heart, your lucky prune.
Against patter of sleet, preservation.
