xxxxxxxxxxxx I'm dreaming of summer as
I block the powdery wind that carries
a February snow.
Up in the tree, ice pushes down on a bough.
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That same tree, if I'm patient, will yield shade
in August and let me pull a ripened warm peach
from its hold.
x
xxxxxxxxxxxxI remember another time of peaches...
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xxxxxxxxxxx Here's an exerpt from a poem I wrote
because I love peaches....
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Peaches of Saint-Paul
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xxxxxxxxx.....Bells suddenly roused us from the chilly grotto.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx We ran down cobbled steps,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx embracing our brief mortality, and found
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx Rue Verdalette. Following the map
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx we turned right at the telephone pole.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx And full below was Saint-Paul de Vence,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx washed by the Provencal sea.
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A vendor's cart,
just wheeled into the shade, displayed
avacados, alongside daisies.
Melons were cut open, their pale green flesh
too pungent, summoning
a rush of fruit flies.
And a dozen peaches
ripened to a dazzling pink......
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from "Two Ghosts", a book of poetry.
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