fresh love a dripping peach
shared in fertile, scrubby fields
from bushels we were given.

we didn't gorge ourselves
on that sweet fiber.

instead we picked the basket clean,
sharing each lurid immensity and
keeping carefully the wrinkled pits
to dry and plant.

thinking we knew how
to grow our own orchards.

more bushels came in summer,
of which I did not partake.
juices soak the soil.

perhaps we'll know each other
still when the high flowers bloom.