Soon I’ll forget my grandfather’s garden
and the way the two pear trees stand.

I’ll forget afternoon visits,
stuffing his freezer with zip-locked meats.

Below us, garlic hangs in a cellar above
canned sauce, the caps dated in Sharpie.

Soon I’ll forget the way he shows me the first ripe pear,
nodding -- proud, as if it had grown inside him.

I’ll forget the way he sticks it between his teeth
so he may raise up his arms and cut down another.