-This poem reflects on peaches ripening indoors, where high summer’s sweetness deepens into softness and the first hint of passing begins to appear.
By late week in the bowl they change,
their gold gone deeper into rose,
the skin more yielding to the thumb,
the fragrance fuller in the room.
What first came firm from field and crate,
now settles into sweeter weight,
as if the heat they carried home,
has only now become itself.
No branch still holds them where they are,
no leaf shades them from further ripening,
just kitchen light, and waiting air,
and time completing what sun began.
So much of high summer turns here,
not only in growth, but in giving way,
the fruit made softer day by day,
until abundance learns to bruise.