Wednesday, July 2, 2008

A new poem for a July day.

A morning of dusty digging
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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