Listening for a Summer Song
She peels late June Redhaven peaches on the porch.
Juice bursts through tender, fuzzy skin
Dripping into the bowl’s hungry mouth.
Fruit flies swarm in the sweltering air at the knife’s approach.
Another reason to peel outside, in the heat, she muses.
She peels and she wonders,
Alone but for the occasional bird chirp or
Random plane proceeding along its route.
The Cozy Coupe sits parked, angled against a powdering urn
Overflowing with Wave Petunias that survived a mild winter.
She wonders where the children are.
All’s quiet but for a short dog bark,
And a daughter asking if THIS peach cobbler recipe sounds okay.
She wonders if half-rotten peaches inspired all the recipes.
She wonders if over-juicy, just-too-mushy peaches taste rotten.
She timidly touches her tongue to gooey pulp.
Almost eons ago she wouldn’t have dared……
But today she’s Mother, no risk seems too far-fetched
To protect her children from icky, or worse.
She wonders about the sound the peaches made
as they slid across the porch tiles
Propelled by Baby saying, most likely, “Ball! Ball!
Did they Plop! Pop! And spray juice?
Baby holds the secret, yet
Babies keep their counsel well, unlike
Rustling leaves that flutter only occasionally,
Bearing witness to a blistering afternoon.
She peels and searches for the song in her heart.
The one whose lyric she tries to remember.
Whatever she thinks she hears, brings a
Sorrowful smile to her eyes.
And a tear mingles, without a thought, into sweet, sweet peaches.