If I buy you a new dress,

a short one in a floral pattern

cut deep from the shoulders,

and a wide brimmed straw hat,

will you stand beneath the trees

before the pears fall and rot,

barefoot, hair tumbling from chapeau,

wearing only that dress,

and nothing more,

and lift the hem high enough

to show the place where your thighs

meet the roundness of your cheeks?

Fill the dress then with ample pears

so I can make for you

French butter pears in raspberry sauce

to go with a glass of red wine

this evening on the wooden deck

as the colors of the treetops change

and before we go back inside

to escape the coming chill.

I promise not to photograph you

or tell anyone what we’ve done.

I’ll just remember you one autumn afternoon

when we couldn’t hold enough of each other,

when the pears were so many

there wasn’t time between us

to gather them all.


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