The Gift

Summer comes and pears ripen
Plump, juicy yellow-reds hanging
on low branches;
Behind rusty old chicken wire,
Jumbles of forest-green cucumber logs play
hide-n-seek beneath their tangled vines.
Sweet, clear notes from a familiar violin float
From an open upstairs window
into the street below;
I daydream of exhilarating heights attained only by a swing,
Dirty, beat-up knees, mischievous grins.

Reaching out, I carefully pluck a single pear;
Its juices dribble down my chin as I
sink my teeth into the tender smooth skin.