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The
fractured, crumbled outline of the pump house
Is all that is left to tell the history of Texan transplants
A homestead that held a family in its creaking bosom.
Ten feet from where the house once stood,
At the southwest corner of the garden that fed them
The pear tree planted by the youngest son still stands
A grand testament to her Arkansas roots.
Drawing great strength from the land that has given
All she had to give and more - offering up her possessions,
Her precious stones in return for the love of generations,
The pear tree stands proud and yet close to broken
Sunlight peering, peeking through her hollow core.
Shaking her gnarled arms with groaning resistance
Unfurling green leaves like flags from her good limbs,
Bearing fruit as she can, offering sustenance up
To the daughter of that youngest son - so long gone
From the homestead but still a part of her, of the land
She gives all she has even as the scythe threatens.
I stand, that daughter, touching the wound in her trunk
Where lightning ripped her open, where disease scarred her
Placing my hand in the hollow, into the shadows
The cavern of despair, hoping that the glorious pear
Could heal even me, teach me how to sprout green
From the ashes of devastation and destruction.
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