There was no stopping the old pear tree
in our backyard. After we released it
from a staked cord, it stood on the lawn
for a month as if coming to its decision
to lie back down on the ground again.
All winter we left it for dead, but in the spring
it lay in an island of unmowed grass
blooming beside its mate, and this May,
when I separate their branches
and look in, I find new shoots and flowers.
At the end of my life I want to lie down
in the long grass with one arm by my side
lifting me up as I reach out to her with all the others
and she reaches back. I want to know nothing
but the humming and fumbling of bees
carrying seed dust on their bellies from my blossom
to her blossoms in the dome of green shade.