Peaches

Late July,
And in the shimmering heat and humidity
Of Midsummer
I find you suspended there,
Yellow jackets droning around your branches.

In your ripeness
There is no other fruit
Which manages your colors:
Pinks and yellows and bright reds.
A painter's pastel palette,
A still life masterpiece,
The pride of Central Georgia
And upstate Carolina.
The dainty little trees
Rolling away across the hills
Like a chorus line dancing
Away from the curve of the roadway,
The lusciousness of your shape,
Your roundness
Is so feminine;
Your ripe sweetness superb.

In Georgia we name our daughters "peaches" after your example.

If God were to issue prohibition to our parents
Forbidding them from eating of the fruit of your branches
There would be no hesitance before they took that first bite;
The allure would be so great.