Prufrock's Pears

Sometimes when the heavens, the clouds, and the stars pour fourth from their luminous eyes myriad tear drops, little boys on earth become crestfallen and yearn for a time of sunny days and cool breezes.

And on nights like these, with tears falling from the skies, I rejoice in the succulent flavor of the second pear I've ever tasted in my life. And I question myself, Do I dare eat a pear? as if I am J. Alfred Prufrock in search of a peach and some eternal happiness.

What is a pear?
What is a tear?

That which grows from some other grower.
That which is produced by some other producer.
That which is created by some other creator.
I can create a tear by thinking of something despondent.
Yet pears, when they are created, are something ripe, new, delicious, nourishing.
I want to create something enriching. I want to be able to produce something ripe, something new, something delicious, something nourishing.

I want to create something that will enrich others, like the grown pear to crestfallen boys on nights when the sky is crying and the ground is reaching up, catching the fallen tears, the wind blowing in between, consistently asking the sky, Why?