In Peach Time

In Peach Time

On a sunny window sill the peach

Ticks its furry sweetness—

In another life it had been a clock.

The poet reaches for a pencil

And stares at a hole in her sock.

Outdoors peach trees wave digital leaves—

Indoors the poet discards a crumpled poem

And with it everything she believes.

Then she hearkens to a distant ticking sound—

That would be my peach ripening, she thinks

My peach so plump and round.

 She reaches for her peach and eats it

Fuzz flesh and stone and then she

Begins to tick like a metronome.