Peaches

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.

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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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