Basket of Peaches

In afternoon sun, golden strands glow

just right under a bright red rim, blend

with pink, soft purple fruit – one 

stacked against another, one on top 

peaking above the others

the one you will touch first, and hold 

like the hand of a child, feel 

skin soften your own callous flesh

then set it aside to inspect two or three 

more, considering the paradox 

of firm skin covering a river of juice, 

anticipating a sticky stream 

from the corners of your mouth

dripping down to your elbows.

You decide on the whole basket.

                                                                                             They belong together.                                                                                      

                                                                                             For a time everything fits.

                                                                                             The world is fine, an eternal garden.

                                                                                             You set the basket on a dependable table 

                                                                                             covered with patterned cloth, adjust 

                                                                                             window shades – evening sunbeams 

                                                                                             slip through yellowing a basket,

                                                                                             rimmed in red, full of the sweet 

                                                                                             promise of tomorrow.

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