This Autumn

Leesie Matthiesen

I didn’t hear the pears 

fall. I didn’t wade

through that tickling, 

tender grass, to see 

them: speckled, slack.

Bruised violet-brown 

& riddled with ants grazing

like black beads. 

Didn’t fold to my knees. 

Didn’t rub away that 

bitter film of dust, thumbnails 

carving crescents 

I’m quick to cover 

as they tumble into 

the bowl & shift

against each other.   

Didn’t take a bite, under 

that full moon broken by 

stars. But I saw you 

in that kitchen— 

you were puttering 

among the jars. You 

were slipping off the skins 

like the covers of 

the books you love, 

dropping half-moons into 

water, with more 

sugar than anyone 

should have. Enough 

to make me remember, 

that I am more 

loved than I should be,

the moment I taste 

something so fresh, so 

sweet. You were telling 

me to stir them, 

to watch them while 

you went out to the garden. 

Please come back. 

They’re ready; 

they’re golden.