precious ground

In a sharp-edged kitchen I stand alone with you.

I can never get warm here 

despite the layers 

and my body prickles as my blood flow becomes sharp and slow.

Meanwhile there is a young girl below it all-

cupping fresh pears with her bare hands,

soft and bare and perfectly imperfect.

I want to tell her that she is right;

pears and apples 

and the hourglass that haunts her 

are all beautiful shapes.

She lives there; but for how long?

What will we try to tell her 

that will tear her roots 

out of this intelligent, precious ground?