Pear Core

We can make it speak. Here:
I am not waste. I am

Seeds, wet, brown, white, and coarse.
I have been tossed or left,

I’m not sure which, down here
On the floor of the world.

The sun is in the south,
But bright. Not far from me,

The skull of a finch lies
In the grass, a few shreds

Of skin left near the neck.
I can’t move. I will change,

But I could, through time’s quirks,
Last in some form for years.