The Orchard

The roadside stand had a hand-painted sign,

peeling white letters on a slab of pine.

I remembered the pears being heavy and sweet,

a syrup that softened the glare of the street.

But the first bite is grit, a mouthful of sand,

tasting like aspirin and the heat of the land.

The juice isn't honey, it’s sour and thin,

staining the lines where my palms fold in.

Maybe the trees got tired of the rain,

or the soil is holding a different grain.

I stand by the gate with the core in my hand,

waiting for something that isn't coming back.