For hours today, I hold
the sweet weight
of ripe peaches
in my palm, and
with the other hand,
I slice into the fruit,
the golden juice streaming
between my fingers,
sticky, delicious,
before I drop the slices
into the bags for the freezer.
What is it in the body
that knows to gather
what is ripe and preserve it
for a time in the future
when the world is barren?
I have tried to do this
with love. Sometimes,
midwinter, I pull out
a memory. I swear
sometimes it’s even
sweeter, but sometimes
it leaves me
ravenous.