In Peach Time
On a sunny window sill the peach
Ticks its furry sweetness—
In another life it had been a clock.
The poet reaches for a pencil
And stares at a hole in her sock.
Outdoors peach trees wave digital leaves—
Indoors the poet discards a crumpled poem
And with it everything she believes.
Then she harkens to a distant ticking sound—
That would be my peach ripening, she thinks
My peach so plump and round.
She reaches for her peach and eats it
Fuzz flesh and stone and then she
Begins to tick like a metronome.
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Ron
Love ya!
Jane