"The Pear" by Jane Kenyon + Vanilla-Scented Pearsauce

Some poems make things simple, recipe-wise. They list a series of ingredients, practically writing the recipe for you, giving your mind a dish before you even finish reading. In this poem, there is none of that. Instead, a single pear, first in the title, then not again until the last stanza, where it's used as a metaphor for the mind in middle age. I hope this is not what I have to look forward to.