 |
|
| |
| Winter Pears |  | |  | |
by Doug Tanoury | |
On a wooden swing hanging
From the highest bough
Of his backyard pear tree
We learned to fly at the
Speed of dreams on summer
Afternoons, leaning back
And gripping rusted
Chains and looking far up
Into thick foliage that hid
The dark limbs that held us.
From the tall tree that grew
Small winter pears
I’d fly with him across the
Summers and briefly
Forget for a moment
My parent’s marriage,
The family finances,
My sister’s sickness.
In quick motion sweeping us
Upward, we learned to fly.
Before I knew of fallen fruit
Or how spring winds
Waste pear blossoms,
I knew him. He flew
Unfettered and without
Cares where dreams
Grew slow like winter pears
On the highest branches
To ripen and fall only
In late summer.
Today, under a pear tree
Drooping with fruit
I dreamt him here.
|
| Doug Tanoury grew up in Detroit and still lives in the area with his wife and
three children. He's been published in Writer's Digest, Ego Flights Alura
Quarterly and A Year On The Avenue (Two Dog Press). His online credits include:
The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Eclectica, Recursive Angel, The Free Zone and others.
The greatest influence on Doug and his work was the 7th grade poetry anthology
used in Sister Debra's English class: Reflections On A Gift Of Watermelon
Pickle And Other Modern Verse, Stephen Dunning, Edward Lueders and Hugh
Smith, © 1966 by Scott Foresman & Company.
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
