At the edge of a grove, pears trees sit in queue,
Their branches tangled, offer\'ng spectral view,
The lantern of night spills a silv\'ry dew,
A breath of orchard drifts as maiden\'s hair.
A fox in the hedgerow lingers, its shadow grown,
The frost on the furrows is quietly shown,
The farmhouse is silent, the fields over‑sown,
And pears in their dreaming are caught in the air.
They are resting in baskets, under the beams of glass,
On the worn wooden tables where the shadows pass,
They gather the shimmer as the night hours mass,
And silent the stair by the orchard hill.
In the loft beyond there is nothing but flame,
The hearth’s faint glow and the rafters the same,
They cradle the pears in a silver frame,
Moon‑washed and waiting, utterly still.
.