Sally Bliumis-Dunn – Ⅲ

In the Orchard 

 

 

 

 

I am picking but also,

 

like sometimes happens in a dream,

 

 

 

I am watching the four of us

 

from a distance, on a hill:

 

 

 

the pears and pear trees suddenly

 

invisible to me, but not to

 

the four of us picking. So, what I see

 

 

 

is almost like a dance:

 

 

 

each of us reaching skyward,

 

in their own quirky rhythm, but

 

 

 

with the same open palm,

 

 

 

fingers slightly curled, and then

 

the tiny jerk in the hand

 

as the invisible pear

 

unlatches from the branch

 

 

 

and the hand returning,

 

hovering for a moment

 

 

 

over the heart

 

 

 

before it goes to the mouth

 

or drops the invisible pear

 

 

 

into a common

 

bag on the ground

 

 

 

which keeps fattening.