in this season the pears – 

slender, long-waisted

cinnamon odalisques

with weighty hips –

 

arrive, golden in the leaf-light

 

once picked, they put on

a ceramic calm

stilled, like a vase,

like a cat,

a hidden ripeness

under a roughened glaze

 

tipped on one side

they fall into curves,

their hips invite –

“reclining nude” –

their Modigliani calm

their Matisse effulgence