Summer burned the peaches
We stopped to swipe
In Chilton County.
The first quivered
And fell into my open hand,
The weight of the sun,
Russet, pink, and orange,
Hazy with down.
You bit into the cleft,
And I stole a stare,
Ripening.
My mother Bunny was Dad’s one-and-only “Georgia Peach.” But how he took to Alabama fruit once they moved to Birmingham. Every summer he trekked to Chilton County to pick and pick, peach after peach, weekend after weekend, for the pleasure of putting up sweet jam to spread on fluffy biscuits on Christmas morning. My memory still tastes the wonder.
I can taste that very jam!
I’m trying to find the recipe!
Sweet piece about life’s small blessings.
Yes, a great time of year to count them. BTW I love the name of your blog!!
Such a savory memory, Catherine, and especially welcome on this gray New England day…
Now, Missy, who was begging for snow a few days ago?! haha
A wonderful recreation of sexual awakening. I hope you know how good the poem is.
I’ll take your word for it as a prose writer who skips through poetry gardens. Thanks, M. D.
Very sensual and intriguing – never thought of putting the words peach and heat together… but the juiciness of this poem is…. clearly what appeals!
Thanks for stopping by, Karen. It’s easy to connect peaches and heat if you pick them in August–in central Alabama.
An example of how powerful a poem can be. Awesome!
Thanks, TK. I’m so glad you like it!
A lovely, lusty poem about different kinds of peaches… and heat. Love it, love you, joy to your world!
Thank you, my kind friend. Thinking of Paris–always dear to my heart. Truly the City of Light & Life. A joyful Christmas to you & yours.
Beautiful, Catherine. I’m so glad to be on your list to ready your poetry and other stories. This is a breathtakingly beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing. I especially love to hear about your dad and Bunny.