The pears
bend the
crooked branches—
flushed
and drowsy
with sugar.

The juice waits
for something—
for its skin
to be bruised,
for a mouth
to bite in,
and when done
waiting—
suffer the wind
do what must
be done.

I                                                                ­                                       Up
Used                                                          ­                                  Me
       To                                                               ­                 Picked
          Live                           ­                                         And
                On  ­                                                   Around
                   One                                        Came
                         Big                               You
                             *****                Until
                                     Downward

My hands knew
what I should do.

My mother understood how—
carefully carve into my soul,
shaping me softly.

She was never one for goodbyes—
you behave
she used to say instead.

Her mouth learned
how to make me know
she meant it.

My hands understood,
my heart, too.

When He was born,
He cried into the void of space,
Searching for the comforting voice of calm.

But only silence returns His call,
His tears echoing of the dark edges of the dark.

But He taught Himself to walk,
How to shape something with His own hands,
Then He made a world to answer back.