Peaches
Ah, summer. Yesterday our friends Michael and Lori brought us these gorgeous apricots and peaches, some at their precise moment of readiness. The peaches were particularly luscious: plump and perfumey, firm-fleshed and sweet, the ones to which I will compare all subsequent peaches, and the latter will always be wanting.
I found the right poem:
Peaches by Peter Davison
A mouthful of language to swallow:
stretches of beach, sweet clinches,
breaches in walls, pleached branches;
britches hauled over haunches;
bunched leeches, wrenched teachers.
What English can do: ransack
the warmth that chuckles beneath
fuzzed surfaces, smooth velvet
richness, plashy juices.
I beseech you, peach,
clench me into the sweetness
of your reaches.