How I Slice It
The pears on my counter are blushing, ripening.
Picking one up, I imagine their journey and all the hands
that cradled them before they made their way here
They were grown, quite likely, nearby in Kelseyville—
lauded as the pear capital of the world
But unless I venture from Kelseyville’s Main Street
I won’t see thriving pear orchards planted generations ago
I won’t see beyond the fruits’ alluring shapes and colors…
The delivery truck driver who unloaded
an impressive haul of pears at the grocery store
produce department employees who unpacked
arranged an inviting selection
Pear sheds where thousands of these stemmed jewels
were sorted, packed, readied for shipping
Hands efficiently plucked one after another, row after row
farmers, laborers who nurtured, tended each tree
families whose toil preceded tractors
who married pear seeds and saplings to rich soil
I consider further back still, centuries and millennia
the earliest stewards of these lands…
In a day or two I will savor and share
these pears I didn’t grow.
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