For She, Who Sleeps

Imagine yourself a pear tree,
with passionate palms upturned
to receive bashful young fruits
as they plummet from your own aching
branches.

A light drizzle of sweetness
turns into an unforgivable lashing
and your overburdened wrists
snap under the weight of the
deluge.

Broken bones beneath sugared skin.
Faith, scattered around the orchard,
never to be pieced back together.
And then, a pompous sky, naked
in its knowledge, laughs before it
cries.  Moistened mud slides
over bulging thighs, making a mark,
biding its time, giving everything
to all that we are.