Came to a close near noon, and
Our leader came around with
A bag of fresh peaches.
Israeli-grown, so fresh and ripe,
No effort was needed to bite
Into the soft wet flesh, and
Juice ran down her hands.
You stood nearby in that
Dusty t-shirt and brown hat
Hand on blue jean hip,
Watching as she licked her fingers.
July 1, 2008
The impetus for writing this poem was a friend describing his eating a peach.
Peaches now days are something I find at the local grocery. This year they are the size of a billiard ball and nearly as hard, for they never seem to be ripe in the store. I will buy two or three and put them in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. The morning before I want to eat one, I take it out and set it on the table. By afternoon it has softened and then late at night when I sit down to read, I will eat it. It's soft and the juice will invariably drip on my chest, but it sure isn't as the peach described in the poem.
That peach could start a rain storm.
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