The Fruitless Pear Tree in New England, Mid-November
I don’t know how to write a poem,
but I do know something about red.
I am a master of red, an aficionado of red,
an exuberant maven of red:
blood orange, claret, burnt sienna, rust,
all with a bit of a green undertone if you look closely.
You were looking closely yesterday, probably wondering
how I do it, how I stand so dignified
even though I’m shivering in the wind,
even though it’s getting late,
even though everyone around me is
giving up and letting go.
But I’m not letting go; I won’t.
You stoop to pick up a single vermilion leaf at my feet,
and look up at me, desiring more.
But my answer is No, why should I?
I know what comes
of letting go.
The browns, the greys,
the taste of death.