From blossoms
comes
this brown paper
bag of peaches
we bought from the
boy
at the bend in the
road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs,
from hands,
from sweet fellowship
in the bins,
comes nectar at
the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour,
dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar
dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we
love inside,
to carry within us
an orchard, to eat
not only the skin
but the shade,
not only the sugar,
but the days to hold
the fruit in our
hands, adore it, then bite into
the round
jubilance of peach.
There are days we
live
as if death were
nowhere
in the background;
from joy
to joy to joy, from
wing to wing,
from blossom to
blossom
to impossible
blossom, to sweet impossible blossoms.
--Li-Young Lee, From Blossoms
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