There are only ten minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver, higher than my arms reach you front us with great mass;
no flower ever opened so staunch a white leaf, no flower ever parted silver from such rare silver;
O white pear, your flower-tufts, thick on the branch, bring summer and ripe fruits in their purple hearts. ~Hilda Doolittle Dawson (H.D.) “Pear Tree”
…we noticed the pear tree, the limbs so heavy with fruit they nearly touched the ground. We went out to the meadow; our steps made black holes in the grass; and we each took a pear, and ate, and were grateful. ~Jane Kenyon from “Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer”
A moment’s window of perfection is so fleeting in a life of bruises, blemishes and worm holes. Wait too long and nectar-smooth flesh softens to mush and rot.
The unknown rests beneath a blushed veneer: perhaps immature gritty fruit unripened, or past-prime browning pulp brimming with fruit flies readily tossed aside for compost.
Our own sweet salvage from warming humus depends not on flawless flesh deep inside but heaven’s grace dropped into our laps: to be eaten the moment it is offered.
The perfect pear falls when ripe and not a moment before, ready to become an exquisite tart which tastes of a selfless gift.
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple’s a rose, And the pear is, and so’s The plum, I suppose. The dear only know What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose– But were always a rose. ~Robert Frost, “The Rose Family” from The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems
We are more alike than we are different, from every thing to every one, yet we still strive to discriminate and differentiate.
We arose from the same origin:
put together atom to atom, amino acid to amino acid, conceived within the mind of God, formed by His Hands and Breath, designed as treasured artwork whether flower or fruit or fetus.
So we can only know what He has told us in His carefully chosen Words: we are dear, we are His rose, in whatever form or function we appear, however we have been put together~
We will always be His rose.
There is no rose of such virtue As is the Rose that bore Jesu: Alleluia. For in this rose was contained Heaven and earth in a small space. Wondrous thing. Res miranda. By that rose we may well see There is one God in persons three. Equally formed. Pares forma. The angels sang; the shepherds, too: Glory to God in the highest! Let us rejoice. Gaudeamus. Leave we all these worldly cares And follow we this joyful birth. Let us be transformed.Transeamus. ~Benjamin Britten “There is no rose” from “Ceremony of the Carols”
That whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit, speaking to me, Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings; And for a moment I rejoice, And believe in transcendent things That would make of this muddy earth A spot for the splendid birth Of everlasting lives, Whereto no night arrives; ~Thomas Hardy from “In a Whispering Gallery” in Moments of Vision
If I listen carefully enough,
if I attend to His Voice,
the still small whisper that comes
as night fades away.
Light dawns kindling
over this sad world,
muddy though it be,
yet lit from above,
“There are only ten minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
A moment’s window of perfection is so fleeting
in a life of bruises, blemishes and worm holes.
Wait too long and nectar-smooth flesh
softens to mush and rot.
The unknown rests beneath a blushed veneer:
perhaps immature gritty fruit unripened,
or past-prime browning pulp readily
tossed aside for compost.
Our own sweet salvage from warming humus
depends not on flawless flesh down deep inside
but heaven’s grace dropped into our laps;
a perfect pear falls when ripe, tasting like a selfless gift.
“A man watches his pear-tree day after day, impatient for the ripening of the fruit. Let him attempt to force the process, and he may spoil both fruit and tree. But let him patiently wait, and the ripe pear at length falls into his lap!” ~ Abraham Lincoln