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 blossom.
Li-Young Lee
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