Pears are underrated.
On Sunday night
by the stovetop light
I meditate to the rhythm of the cutting board knife
metronome tapping out a culinary dance.
I study the smooth indents left by pear seeds
think of how these fruits are my sisters
our bodies speak soft languages
that grow from the earth
and taste like nectar dripping from trees.
I cut her seeds out
and think of mine.
I want to cut myself open
to see the magic inside
and count the buds
that will flower inside me.
When I was young,
I would collect seeds
tuck them away in a tiny bone box
that fit in the palm of my hand.
I thought often of planting a pear tree
watching it reach for the sun
to become all the grace that would have been lost
if I had thrown it away.
I wonder where the pear seeds went.
I keep pace with the knife,
up, down,
and feel my sisters
at my fingertips
think about how
when I’m gone
I’d love to become that pear tree
dancing in the wind
heavy with fruit
reaching towards the sun.
xo