Under The Pear Tree

Remember?

The pear tree.
The fallen fruit.
The July sun.
The sweet heavy smell.
The yellowjackets
drunk on the ferment.

Their sound as you bent
close to observe.
The need to touch.
The reaching down in trance —

then the sudden snap up and
the running, the crying.
You are six years old
and stung —

remember?

Remember how, long after that,
you could not be drunk again
like you were at six, drunk
on simply being with the world,
on seeing and hearing the world?