Peaches - Trout Black

[Larry Robinson]

Peaches  

Roses to the right of her,
Iris to the left,
Field stone wall behind her,
What could she have left?

That’s a question we've not asked
For thirty years or more,
Each late July she gives to us
Sweet ripe peaches galore! 

They’re round and soft and fuzzy
A fuzz my wife abhors,
But when she bites inside our peach
Poetic rhymes disappear, 
As juice flows down her chin
She smiles a light-filled grin.

Apricots a month before
Gravensteins we reach
But nothing close to pleasing us
Compares to our sweet peach.

And know that this is in reverse,
It’s not we who have the peach,
Rather she has us,
Embraced within her reach.  

	- Trout Black