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.