Peaches (poem)


You know they’re ripe when

they smell like July- sweet like

roses, tender when separating skin

from flesh with eager lips. To taste

such yielding fruit is to feel whole

again, to feel each bruise of the skin

weigh down like trees that

gave them to the earth, when

they got too heavy with sugar

and snapped,

tumbling on soft grass until they were picked

for the market, tossed into brown bags

like cellars. Cut them open,

and see their yellow faces

glow like the warm sun, tasting the sweet

stony fruit of summer.

– The Finicky Cynic

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