The pear tree was the grandfather of the garden, his bark the brown hue of rich earth, glazed with the green of lichen. For those winter months he stood with arms raised skyward, as if he dreamed of touching the clouds and the stars above. Come springtime he fed the bees, come summertime he fed the birds. Yet always he fed that part of me that needed it the most, the heart that dwells within my eyes, the consciousness that is bound and boundless. There were days I sat in his great arms, feet dangling earthward, watching the dandelion seeds pirouette with their precious cargo.