Barbara Crooker Pears They swing on the tree like golden bells; around them, air ripens the color of bronze. Cool smooth skin, impervious to touch. Softening from the inside out, the opposite of the stone fruits, peaches, apricots, plums. Their bottoms swell, hips swaying like maracas in the autumn breeze, the smoke's blue haze. Slip a thin knife into the skin; cut small wedges. This is the only way you can eat the sun. Unpicked, they'll crash to the ground, oozing and liquid, whirl wasps into drunkenness, melt like early snow on the lawn.

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