1.

Pear boughs
pruned late in season,
the twig-ends knotted with buds,

gathered to indoor warmth
and water they swell
loose and begin to open--

offer blossoms
that will never bear fruit;

as though that sharp
sever from the whole
were little more than dream--

cut limbs
flowering on a sunlit shelf,

      white petals
            grayed wood.

2.

Pawtracks
small on cold white
earth,

past a woodblock
and gnarled pear,
the empty shed open--

something gone.

A wind that froze the pipes,
an ash-wet sky,
and tracks

off through the first snow.

3.

What the sun does
off behind the snow mountains
when it goes there

no one knows, but
it must be something wonderful,
something that transforms,

making all of heaven throb
pulse-red and the seas burn,
as if

it were pleased with its children,
or displeased, or more
that we,

now losing sight
of what we picture the sun
to be,

are given a brief and awesome
glimpse
of the gift it has given us.

Copyright Tim McNulty @ 2001