A lonely young woman walked in her walled pear orchard, its eternal prisoner. There may have been a time when she loved her golden pears, their rounded shapes, sweet nectar and soft flesh, but she never thought of those days. Since she could remember, they were iron weights hanging from dark branches like chains. Her pale figure was a ghost flitting through the amber and sometimes earthen pointillist bejewelling of the secret, lonesome garden. There were days of sun and days of rain, but there were no days without the hesperian fruits lusciously dangling in the sparkling twilight. There had been someone else once, long ago perhaps, long before the migraines and silence, but now it was sheer pain to feel or think, for the golden pears crowded out all thoughts. Once, while walking along a path through the dark trunks and bright fruits, she stopped by a stream to watch birds drink and bathe. Thoughts are birds or trees, she reasoned, and sometimes stonesthrough which the waters sough. They run off in streams. Maybe thoughts are water.
There is an old proverb that says three monks cannot haul water to provide for themselves. There happened to be three real monks discussing this actual story from every angle at their small, new monastery on the cliff. One, who happened to know a bit of math and logic, which is poetry after all, suggested that they remain as three monks but pretend to be alone when it came to chores. The other two readily agreed and the rest of the day was spent in hauling water, each one carrying his own bucket. By nightfall, they had stored the equivalent of a reservoir and decided to celebrate with some tea. Apparently, we have no firewood for boiling tea and making dinner, said the first monk, a little disappointed. To hell with proverbs! said the third monk. Tonight we will fast, said the second monk, and tomorrow we can talk about economics, which I happen to know something about. Perhaps some division of labour might be necessary. The other monks agreed, for economics is also poetry, and there is nothing more beautiful than a life of contemplation and poetics in the wilderness of mountains and waters.