Yellow pears
in a red Italian bowl
rest in afternoon sun
near a window where outside
crows stitch across the valley;
below them, cars on the highway,
each with its purpose
speeds to cities one way
small town the other:
all is motion or stillness.
Inside, where a clock ticks
in place on the white wall,
pot simmers over low flame,
heart waits, expecting
what she knows not,
only that the pears are golden now,
lighting up a worn blue quilt
under the red bowl.