Juicy peaches, sweet
fresh, sitting in flowered bowl
The image and smell
take me back to my seventh year
to a kitchen that was shady and cool
in the heat of a summer afternoon,
to an old home
lived in and cared for by women
who still fed the ancient stove wood
to turn out home-cooked meals.
I taste the sweet juice of a peach
as it runs down my chin
almost a half-century later
and I hear my great aunt’s laugh,
long since silenced,
as she hands me a napkin
to catch the runoff.
And I am back in her kitchen,
shady and cool
in the heat of a summer afternoon.