Peaches, full and ripe,
like an eight month pregnant belly
hang from the limbs
leaning towards my hand from the weight.
Yellow and a dark sunset orange
punctuate the green finger leaves,
dots of color drawn with a child’s marker.
The wind shifts the limbs,
bowing, blowing,
and the peaches keep their place
steady, stalwart on the branches.
An old gray fence, leaning with age,
separates me from this seasonal feast.

30 April 2000