dead people and pears

she waited for the morning
light, the strong sunlight
to shine in, then she began
to paint in oils from the
sketches of the photos cut
neatly out of the obituaries.
not every face would do,
it had to be a certain look,
old or young, something
different, unique in the posture
or pose, the eyes, the length
or lack of nose, or ears
that would protrude too far
from the face. the high
forehead, a grin, or scowl
a mop of hair lopsided
by some unseen hand or wind,
but she had an eye for them,
and could capture with her
subtle hand the very essence
of who they seemed to be.
and when she bored herself
with painting the dead
she would turn to a bowl
of pears, fresh or ripened
brown, it made no difference,
and she would line them in
a row and gaze into their
very souls to find a way
to paint them too.