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