Peach

A cerebral cortex looks, I imagine, like a warm peach,

the cerebellum cradled like a pit inside. I feel the weight

of sweetness in my palm, the blush and sunshine

as it hums with the season, juicy with peach thoughts.

Rough angles of the tree, thick bark mottled by age.

After losing everything, becoming a resurrection

of green. Bare finding bloom again.

Here is a little sun: orangey yellowy rusty. This

is the flavor that will always be summer. Its orange

so different than an orange's, ripening heat

held in its soft fuzz, the promise of sugar.