To a Pear

by Brigit Truex

Whose song in blossom?

Each petal strikes a note.

Can you hear winds chime?

Turn your head, hear melodies,

faint bells, echo in each bloom.

Walk through temple sounds

that fill the white cloud orchard

while you trace your path.

Do birds carry prayers aloft

like incense rising?

Their hollow bones ring like gongs.

Rising moon, flushed as

ripe persimmons and as broad,

hushes nightingale,

his starry counterpoint trill.

Hung, star-lanterns quell all sound.

How is light and song

captured in fruit, then released

when it’s sliced open?

The moon is a silver blade

dissecting shape and shadow.

Swollen bud turned pear,

it tastes of music beneath

skin of ripe spring moon.

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Filed under Issue 5: The Far East, Poetry

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