Peaches

Phillip Brown

It is the season for peaches.

I reach for one
from the bowl on the counter—
ripe, I think, today.

It fits gently in my palm,
as if made to fit the size,
and I hold it close to my face
breathing in the rich, sweet,
comforting scent like oxygen.

I wash it under some water,
and every hue of its skin
deepens—that skin, the gold
of Buddhist robes, stained in places
with the color of wine and of orange.

It's as if it knows it is autumn
and has put on its colors,
just as the trees.

I begin to peel it,
the blade slipping easily beneath
the skin—each piece dropping
to the sink in long,
sinuous curls.

I peel slowly,
the luminous fruit revealed,
like a profound thought,
in meditation.

Sliced in half, it opens simply,
like a fist unclenched,
offering up the stone of its heart
without argument.

Who knew?

Who knew I could find
such stillness in so simple a task,
find an anchor of calm
in peaches
and things?