Drops of Molten Sun

Golden light drips and drops, stumbles and slips over the smooth curved edge of mottled yellow flesh. Ready to slide and slough onto the hardened ground like melted wax. An unforgiving resting place, no rest to be found. Withered and rotted, a feast for feathered friends.

Once basking and prime in a time long ago, its unmarred fruit gleamed proudly in the full pregnant noon sun. No bumps or cracks, no weathering. Only smooth tans and grays plunging down into moist, cool earth. Spreading, searching, seeking, reaching. Further and further, slaking its endless thirst. Finally, satisfied.

Until a new longing begins to ache. One to grow and climb and stretch. Greens and browns bursting forth, straining and heaving, inching toward the mellow light. The watery beams not enough to sustain. More. More becomes crucial, critical, vital. Drawing deeply, spindly arms break out, snaking toward that light, spewing delicate leaves and pale white petals. Velvet and lovely.

More. More. More. Always more. So greedy. More greens and browns. Reds and yellows. Pinks and Purples. More velvet white. More light. More cool, moist earth. More black and yellow, always buzzing, sticky tendrils brushing. Gathering, moving, taking. The cycle remains unbroken, until.

Until, the pale velvet white transforms. Transcends. Combining and twining, until swollen with new beginnings. Its silken womb nurturing and caressing, protecting and blessing. Its child begging to be born, to rise up. Thrashing, like a racing heart straining to escape its cage.

The tenderness of youth blooming, raging, always fighting. Struggling to be heard. Rash and brazenly glorious, finding a tentative place amongst the greens and browns. Pushing its way into the blazing light. Grabbing and taking, its naivety gentling its selfishness.

All the while, those greens and browns, the velvet white, sacrificing, nurturing, nourishing. Curling around, protecting from the harshness of the brutal wind, the traitorous rain, the mouths of feathers, the bite of slimy things. Lifting and leading, healing and pleading, until.

Until, perfection is found in luscious white flesh, wrapped in sleek pale skin, a core tenderly cradling the seeds of its sons and daughters. Drops of molten sun gleaming on its surface, so full of life, of longing. Ready to keep growing, to mature, to evolve.

But a fine line emerges, breaking the tentative trust between triumph and despair. The pinnacle is reached. Silken flesh in all its awful beauty and preening youth will clasp and grasp, cling and yearn to keep from falling, aging. Desperate to defy the cloying hands of fate.

But fate is no fool. Calloused fingers pull and twist and yank. Some firm but gentle, others rough and rude. Tearing, ripping, releasing. Brown stems screaming and bleeding. Only the damaged, the forgotten remain unscathed. The sole witnesses left to the cruel disregard of their shelter. No shock, no dismay, only acceptance and apathy. Safety lost, destroyed, discarded.

The bumped, the bruised, the dull-skinned hanging on. Sagging and dragging, clasping and laboring. Until fate once again intervenes, gravity welcoming them to their end.

And on and on it goes.

Death and rebirth bundled together, skipping and dragging through life. Pulling and pushing each other in an endless dance. Like the rising tide and the waning moon, always locked in opposition. Until death begins to take notice, and the cycle is broken. Silently creeping, sneaking, stealing. The greens and browns weeping, slowly turning ashy. Delicate beauty surrenders to brittle decay.

Faltering and fading, the pear tree ceases its struggle, accepting its truth. Giving itself back to the sweet, brown earth to be reused, recycled, reborn. It remains lovingly cradled, cocooned. Watching and waiting. Destined to rise once more in a writhing, worming mass of new life pushing toward the surface. Ready to breathe again.