The Pickle and The Pear: A Christmas Poem

I’ve wanted to write a Christmas poem for a few years now, and have always been struck by two ornaments on my tree: a pickle and a pear.  Inspiration struck during a Christmas Eve service last night and I had the first line and title.  And then this morning I woke and wrote the rest.  I used to play the French Horn for many years, so it was fun to work that into a poem finally.  Dedicated to my man.  =)

Die Weihnachts-Gurke und -Birne

for Michael Ernest Sweet

I placed upon my pine tree a pickle and a pear.
Not real ones, mind you. Imagine that. To have a pickle
dripping there. To have a pear sweeten the air.
No, a glass blown pickle and a nickle

pear, its stem trimmed in gold. Which was first?
The pear of course. I hung it high by a bronze
snowflake. Which was last? You must not be versed
in the pickle curse. When I hung it by the swans

they trumpeted like a French Horn. Can you French
like you trumpet? Oh never mind. When I hung
it by the French Horn player he tried to clench
it in his bell. And on this side its shadow clung

to that wooden heart of ribbon and holly. So I hid
the pickle deeper. Where? I’ll give you a hint.
It’s not at the top by the robin’s nest, nor in the mid-
bough balls and ornaments. Don’t guess. Squint.

Its bumps and ridges catch the light and twinkle
at the edge of sight, unlike the pear shimmering there.
Here’s a clue to find the gherkin’s bulb and wrinkle:
to pare the pickle you must pickle the pear.