Peaches

peaches

Ah, summer.  Yesterday our friends Michael and Lori brought us these gorgeous apricots and peaches, some at their precise moment of readiness. The peaches were particularly luscious: plump and perfumey, firm-fleshed and sweet, the ones to which I will compare all subsequent peaches, and the latter will always be wanting.

I found the right poem:

Peaches by Peter Davison

A mouthful of language to swallow:

stretches of beach, sweet clinches,

breaches in walls, pleached branches;

britches hauled over haunches;

bunched leeches, wrenched teachers.

What English can do: ransack

the warmth that chuckles beneath

fuzzed surfaces, smooth velvet

richness, plashy juices.

I beseech you, peach,

clench me into the sweetness

of your reaches.