Bounteous fruit, a pear.
Red or green or yellow.
Imperfect skin, not rough,
just dotted with brown.
Mostly firm but it gives in under a thumb.
"It isn't fully ripe" - crunch!
Chomp and chew and swallow
and chop and chew -
and savor the flavor
that follows the crunch,
that tastes like memories -
faint and sweet and wet.
Yes, this is a poem about a pear. Seems a little random or odd but my favorite thing is poems that take the most mundane things and turn them into a beautiful piece of work. I like this poem and all its randomness - I hope you do too!
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