We saw it against the sky from a long way off.
Now we are here.
He holds me on his heaving shoulders,
my thighs plastered against the nape of his neck,
to pick the last russet pear
from the dry tree.
I slide down his greying body,
the juice already running down my chin.
We lean into each other,
side by sweating side under the withered branches,
and watch seven barred spiral galaxies
rise into the warm night,
one after the other.

©2001 F.J. Bergmann

"Nightfall" appeared on Stone Table Review Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007

Next  Poetry  Home