Peaches and Cherries     

Each September

you bring me peaches

picked from the drooping branches

of your carefully tended trees.

You select the best, unblemished

caressing the velvet

of sun-touched fuzzy globes, 

rose-tinged gold.

Your fingers place each fruit

carefully in a box of cardboard

the color of earth,

the fragrance of wood fiber,

and paper once used in other lives.

You place the box

filled with juicy delight

cautiously, gently 

into my eager hands.

Our fingers do not touch

the fragrant box of edible sunshine

our only physical connection.

Later, alone

I enjoy the first tender taste.

Slowly, I savor the sweet fruit,

my lips wet with juices

escaping from the parted flesh.

A drop, then two,

slip down my chin,

fall, and slide down my breast

coming to rest, and dry sweetly

on my left nipple.

On a sunny June day

I pick cherries

red and swollen from perfect light

interrupted only by starry nights

and the dappling of surrounding leaves.

I delight in the long curve of my arm

reaching into the depths of the tree,

the warm red juice staining my fingers,

and memories of last summer’s peaches.

Each cherry is unique

one a little fatter, another more crimson,

another smiling lusciously 

with two well placed dimples.

I place each cherry, singly, 

into a round basket of finely woven fibers

until it fills, and some overflow,

dropping to the moist soil

and quickly stolen by greedy blue jays.

Shyly, I offer you the basket

Cautiously, I hold it from the base

as you lift it by the braided handle.

The sun glistens on your silky hair

as you choose the first small, plump globe.

You tilt your head slightly

as your mouth curves into a smile,

then opens to the ripe cherry,

savoring the juice of my many tiny gifts.

A scarlet drop slides 

from the corner of your smile,

to your chin, and finally

beneath the fold of your collar.

The juices of peach and cherry

mingle in my imagination

but their ripening seasons don’t coincide.

They remain delicious and sensual pleasures

but always separate.

Donna Lee Taylor ©February 2006