A Reverie On Peaches
In the caldera of August,
I prepare peaches for winter,
Each perfect beauty plunged into boiling caldron,
Skin, made pale, ashen, loosened by fire,
Protective fuzz floating on troubled surface.
Then plunged into icy bath,
The once-protective layer
Slipping loose from the flesh,
Falling, between thumb and fingers,
Like silk from a youthful frame,
Revealing the sun!
Gloriously bright, gold and garnet,
Burning eyes blind,
A radiant triumph of pleasure and promise,
Ready to rise again
When summer is but a dream to come.
Peaches. Delicate fruit,
Children of summer’s middle age.
Radiant globes made to blush
By the sun’s loitering gaze.
Coy maidens, when ripe,
Enticing with firm flesh,
Downy cheeks seductively flushed,
Fevered, glowing.
Temptation is so sweet in summer.
Warm mounds of honey-tart pleasure,
Ready to be palmed, weighed,
Gently pressed, firm yet yielding,
Begging the tempted further,
To bury teeth, lips, face
In the sweet, wet flesh,
Sucking nectar with each bite,
Dripping in rivulets,
Pink-tinged gold,
From fingers and chin,
Lingering, sticky, after the torrent subsides.
Oh, for the pleasure, the passion, captured, repeated,
When the sun is wan on winter’s frozen watch.
Resurrected amidst the wilderness of frigid white.
They whisper a joyous reminder of warmth and intimacy.
Stolen kisses and impassioned embraces,
Forbidden pleasures, guiltily taken,
In summer fields, woodland hideaways,
On sandy beaches,
In drive-in theaters, back seats,
Humid, sultry, crackling, electric, sweet.
Joy and passion, rich, insistent,
Memories and desires,
Prompted, evoked,
To thaw a frozen heart.
