Holding a ripe peach in my hand, I peel away the eager, blushing skin
to the sweet, golden flesh beneath. I am making a pie, filling a deep,
porcelain bowl with thick slices of mellow fruitfulness. The pie is a gift to
my husband. I know from experience that no matter how well I handle the flour,
butter, sugar and cinnamon, it is the peach that makes the pie.
These peaches are perfect.
Perfect as the pulse of color in the ardent evening sky. Perfect
as the kiss of sunshine on a child’s cheek. Perfect as the flame of summer as it burns into autumn. Perfect as the warm embrace of memory on a winter
afternoon.
From bud burst to blossom and burgeoning fruit these peaches were
blessed. Long after the pie is consumed, I will be savoring the juice and joy of
them.
post title from Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Your pie of perfect peaches sounds well-deserving of such a fine post title, and such descriptive writing. Happy eating.
ReplyDeleteThis is utterly beautiful. As if you had taken a paint brush and used it as your pencil. I see the words but also the quality of light in fruit and sky.
ReplyDeleteAnd you did it all with an economy of words, which I envy so very much.
Bless you Dewena. I so enjoy pleasing folks like you.
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