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From the photograph “Pear Blossoms in Mr. Stirling's Orchard, Kelowna” by G. H. E. Hudson, 1909
Smell of pear, smell of
orchard road. Smell of hair,
like deep earth. She sits
by the road again, the orchard
behind her, her stool
on damp grass. Elbow to knee,
chin to palm, eyebrows
curving in to bridge of nose.
White skin. Thick, dark hair.
Smell of hair, unwashed
since yesterday, the day before.
Oil. She must be
crazy, the crazy woman.
A crow flies from
a pear limb. People must know.
She must be crazy. She
waits. She listens to crows, to
the swish of leaves. Like
her sighs. She waits
on her stool for the grocery man
to drive her down
the orchard lane to its end, his
grunts and appetites then,
surrounded by tree light,
pear bark. Sighs. She is tired,
bored. Her round face, her
smile half-masked
by her fingers, her jaw thrust
sideways by weight of head
on hand. It is hot today,
will be hotter.
She must have walked here.
She waits. Sweat beneath
her arms—the sleeves and bodice
of her dark green dress.
The dress covers her knees,
her shins. Smell of sweat, leaves,
dried blossoms. Smell of hair.
Cotton thread stitching
fabric. Cheeks, sweat, skin. Scent
of work and heat. Scent of waiting.
She waits for her husband. She
owns this orchard. She watches
pears, ripe and yellow
and ready to fall, watches workmen
climb narrow ladders.
She watches for children
who steal her pears. She likes
this place, these moments, imagines
a world beyond the mesh
of twig and shadow, beyond
the angle of ladder and thumb.