I wheel my mother into her nursing home;
we reach her room. She asks, "Where am I?"
The bloated unofficial Shrek doll she's somehow
acquired from somebody sits on the windowsill,
glassy-eyed. I try to reassure her, put the TV on,
kiss her cold cheek, hug her but she's still confused.
Then I'm strolling in the grounds, smoking my cigar,
trying to compose myself to drive; a squirrel steals
a sickle pear, races across the grass; a cardinal flies
into the larch; swallowtails drift round the ginkgo.
Beyond the old pear tree, my mother's window:
the fake Shrek doll ls green in the corner.
Christopher T. George
Sickle Pears by Childe Hassam