Bees glint in golden light
drift, lazy in August heat,
to the pear tree
to touch down on fruit that hangs
ripe and unpicked still.

I like to think they have come
to admire the results
of April's labor,
when I watched them stagger
out of countless blossoms
How they rose, weary
heavy with nectar,
gold grains of pollen brushed across
the soft black bristles
between their wings.

Now they tread gently on their pears
touching the softening skin,
this delicate inquiry.

The sweet smell of ripe pears rises.
And winter, far off now
            but certain.  

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Dawn Paul's work has appeared in anthologies and journals, including The Redwood Coast Review, Blithe House Quarterly, The Pedestal Magazine, and Floating Holiday. Dawn runs Corvid Press and has edited and designed several chapbooks. She is interested in interdisciplinary work and has collaborated with actors, dancers and visual artists.  

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