梨

Persimmons hang, their yellow hue still faint and light;

Red dates are ripe enough for peeling, a sweet sight.

The new pears, grafted too, have come to full fruition—

How grand and plentiful, their robust exhibition!

Clustered like green-glazed urns in a prolific row,

Their bearing is immensely broad, a stately show.

Suspended from the branch, thin stems fear breaking's cost;

Planted bamboo props them up, supporting, not lost.

Under the dew, their color slowly starts to shift;

Pressed by frost, their taste grows tart, no vinegarish drift.

Plucked and placed upon the banquet's central array,

Their presence overwhelms all other fruits' display.

I recall in my youth, robust and full of cheer,

When wine warmed me, yet thirst-affliction would appear.

I ate them then without a count, a free delight—

Their sweet coolness surpassed medicine, easing my plight.

Now I sigh, aged and ill, my zest for flavors fades;

Confronting them, I can't forget, yet my hand wades

And then withdraws, hesitant to reach and explore.

Under the sunny eaves, noon's warmth I still adore,

And sometimes think of chewing, tasting as before.

My teeth decayed, to bite is hard—a sorry case;

I hold and play with them, then laugh at my disgrace.