Picking pears
in the sultry middle morning
before adversarial sun
can turn Archimedes' frowning-focus
on melanoma-prone skin-peel.

The pear tree soft-shudders above,
darkly pyramidal,
brooding with unshed seededness.
There is already
an impressiveness of wind-felled fruit adrift,
half-
pecked apart
and messily beak-consumed
in the canopy-demarcating shade.

The top decks
have already been well-stripped,
only lower beams worth harvesting,
for Rosellas have been
summer-cropping.

The tree weeps heavy
pear-tears,
so I must be careful,
gently surround
each beautifully sculpted capsule,
let it fall,
ripe and full -
into my caressing hand.
Stems
have already made minds up
to ease free their dithering children - take her,
take him,
make them apprentice, only do not
waste their potential.