Yakima Canyon Peaches -- a Poem

There were nine peaches in a row,

a shade curve

between the face halves,

and a future

where sweetness ran past teeth.

Having selected the bruised one,

cradled it in hand,

could the next peach

fit quite the same?

Wouldn't the juice come out flat?

And if they lay, all in the sand

until the gold and orange and tans

fit amongst the other,

fit as if they were stone, shale

laid down by wave,

would the curve warm any better?

Life bursts like skin torn by teeth.

Lick it. Savor it over your tongue.

For the embrace of life,

sweet, fragrant, settles from blossom

unto dusk, unto your mind memories,

until the nine sing your fingers

unto the holiness of night,

and you have nine hearts,

and nine minds and children

of a dozen cradles singing

until the dawn, singing of their heart's

lonesome separation from seed.

And singing as if sweetness

would never have a sound.

If only your teeth would choose

the peach that is mine.