In Ribbeck, by the church, a pear tree stands,
fanning the church’s roof with copious boughs.
Its mighty trunk bears witness to its age,
and grows – or so it seems -- out of the wall,
as if from the church’s very core.

There’s a story told of this odd tree
-- I loved to hear it as a child -- about
an old Ribbeckian, who liked to stroll
through town, his bulging pockets stuffed
with pears and apples, which he gave out,

smiling, it must have been a hundred times 
-- gave with both hands -- a gleaming fruit,
to every village child. But when at last,
came time to place the old gent in his coffin
no one thought to check his pockets!

Next spring there sprouted from the churchyard wall, 
near his familial grave, a small green stem.  
And so this cheerful fellow -- who for years 
had lit up children’s eyes with glistening gifts –
still gives out joy, when autumn comes around, 

and the old tree scatters its small pears over
the ground, and children grab them with delight.
Just as the evening shadows lengthen out and deepen
swiftly, when this legend lights my soul!