for Tamra

In summer rain, I still see
myself climbing the trees

of his pear orchard, and you
beside me, your face rinsed

china, the raindrops like sea
salt on your lashes.

Our turned-up shirts stretch
and overflow with wet pears.

On the porch we make a line
of these small green teapots

across cool cement. I toss one up
and you snatch it midair, tasting

too early. The sweetness comes
days after, slices swollen white

with honey, mouthfuls of sugared
meat and dew. So we pile them

in the blue bowl, sleep in our tents
of rocking chairs and Dutch doll quilts,

wait for the yield to release
what it has always held:

the slow syrup he once called love,
finally risen, ripe and in our hands.