The peach orchard

The sun glistens,
Trapped in the jewel’d dew
on the pinkish hump of the fruit
I hold it in my hand: the peach
I look over at her: the owner of the orchard

She cocks her head,
Points her finger to the sign
“U-PICK PEACHES — BRING YOUR OWN BASKETS”
Who am I to argue? It is her orchard after all,
her fruit, succulent and ripe, on the tree.

Pluck’d, the peach weighs
Heavily on the palm of my hand
My thumb slides up the crease,
Flicks the little stem and the leaves
I turn the peach ever-so slightly, and bite!

I bend over quickly,
My back arching, as my teeth sink in
Bowing to a strange, flowering goddess
The juice runs down my beard, splashes on the ground
I suck up what I can, for it is so sweet, it bites back

And the fuzzy skin on the side tickles my cheeks,
My lips, my tongue, as I push in
And divide the flesh from the stone at the center.
The thin, clinging syrup floods my face,
And I am greedy for it; it is too sweet to renounce

She smiles at the look of pleasure lighting my eyes
My mouth is full of the fruit
She tended with her own hands
And yet I manage a fat-cheeked grin for reply
All because I don’t want to swallow

Every morning, this torment
As all that is left is the seed
It fills my left cheek, and my tongue
worries on the striations and the sweet filaments
That my haste and my greed have left behind

“Home for dinner?” She asks as the car roars
“Yurmph,” I nod, grinning and clicking around the seed
It is our agreement; the peaches are hers to sell
Except the sweetest, which she saves all for me.
And I enjoy it before breakfast, and it keeps me coming back

That, and all the other stuff too.