Pear Tree
       

The scale had finally tipped. The crown
had leant the trunk's coarse twist
too far, had torn the root
from the earth's socket. Rain moistened
the dry rot into marrow, a paste
of henna coating the frayed tongue.
Yet the bud-pearls
went on loosening, day by day whitening
the twig wood. Perhaps
it could still drink the rain.
Perhaps sap rises and rises its fill
like a tide, pulled by the novae of transient stars.
Winter rye grew tall between the branches.
Each day I chewed
one rasping blade, folding it greedily
into my mouth. The sweet juice foaming,
stinging my throat.
Today I stood before a tissue of sunlight, behind which
the gilt cage burned. Sparks
lifted off it, or drifted fading down.
I stepped inside,
and the wail of bees rose around me.
I stood; they knocked against me, settling
their squirming burrs on my hair.
I have no flowers for you, I said
and crossed through that veil.

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Copyright © 2013 Karen Holmberg All rights reserved
from Axis Mundi
BkMk Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission