To learn my pears,
I line them up on a windowsill
at my reading table
where their stems lean,
becoming like wicks.
The sun's finger and thumb
will rub those stems
without kindling them,
choosing to caress
their plump bodies warm.
My pears will not melt
as would scented candles
lit in the aging twilight,
but they will still shine
my kind of light.
Then I will know
how to bite into pears
in the kindest way
and how to accept
their sweet forgiveness.
- John Lee Clark