Touch anything gently enough
and it will start speaking with you.
It could be a pear, or a thought,
or the thought of a pear.
They are not ripe for long,
green, brown, they wait without a sound.
I might be sated with one,
delicious after a long hot run,
or musing in the presence of none.
I might be angry at pears, or not,
I can measure my anger thereby,
and the quick of me with their decay.
You are like me, says the pear,
Briefly full of nectar,
mostly meant to propagate,
with little time to spare.
I replied That's true,
and reached for meaning,
but at last there was no more,
no me, nor pear, but bliss'
ever-present blossom.
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