Peach - Barry Spector

[Larry Robinson]

Peach


Having endured the annual descent into bleak November
and winter – even a California winter –
with its diminished imagination of the edible,
the monotonous shuffle of apples and tasteless bananas,
I long to hear from those messengers
from the Other World of summer.

Asparagus appears first, quickly reserving a space on the grill
for its partner, the fresh salmon (once the price comes down).

Later on I’ll thrill to the advent of vine-ripe tomatoes,

especially the black crims that go so well in Greek salad,

and those glorious red peppers.

But when July announces mid-summer,
Sweet Jesus, the peaches arrive!
A joyous procession of yellow peaches, white peaches,
miniature peaches, peaches with every kind of exotic name.

I admire them, kiss and fondle them,
check them every few hours until they reach that fine line
between ripe and overripe.

I like to make a sliced peach, almond butter and cream cheese sandwich, with really dark, French roast coffee, cream, no sugar!

Call me silly, call me compulsive, say, “Get a life!”
I call myself peach lover, peach aficionado,
devotee of all things round and pink.
Oh great apparition of the mother-goddess herself!
I prostrate myself to you 108 times.
I have lived another year.

	- Barry Spector