Not the perfect ones
hanging from the bough,
red and hard in the hand,
but the fallen ones,
sun warmed, likely bruised,
often with earwigs
that squirm out the top,
oh these soft ones
nearly gone,
more nectar than flesh.
Do not be offended
when I offer you this peach.
I gaze into my heart.
It, too, is blemished,
scarred, bruised,
mottled,
fallen, ready
to be yours.
