The world takes us with its silence
The still pears in a bowl reproach us
for not having seen them before —
soft, glowing pears, Hesperidean muscles,
the yellow fruit, hand-heavy —
We have broken the elementary rule
We have looked but not seen
Beautiful reproach, the pairs give
timely, motherly, whispered reproach —
Have you not tasted our goodness?
The grainy sweet, juice-quilted?
Have you not, on a summer morning
wondered at the dimpled skin, the hollow
like the elbow of a child,
and freckled like a child?
The silent world allows us this daily grace:
reproach without condemnation
Like Beatrice, in her golden gown
beauty welcomes us — a still hand, tilted.