Let the beauty we love be what we do.
—Rumi
Sometimes after blanching
the skin peels right off the peach.
It takes only a few minutes
for the naked fruit to glisten,
produce its own coat of sheen.
Slippery and lovely,
if you’ve ever held one,
they wear the same fire
as their skin. Some years,
there are no peaches. Frost
in the buds or the blossoms.
The orchard is a sad place, then.
But this peach, this Rosa,
lustrous and falling out of its skin,
was lucky as I am lucky tonight
to be alive, lucky to be turning the peach
in my hands, slicing into its flesh,
cleaving the halves from the dark red pit
with all the beauty I can muster.