Summer Sonnet (with Apologies to Li-Young Lee)

I wonder, should I really want to write

About peaches yet again? To re-run

That from blossoms comes golden-juiced delight,

Filled with childish joy and summer sun;

To be again by soft-scented fuzz entranced,

To nearly overflow my outmatched tongue

With a handful of sweet, round jubilance—

Eh, it’s all been so much better done!

Perhaps I could adopt a sneering tone,

Point out impermanence or rot within,

Wearily warn of bruises, mold, and stones,

Complain of mealy flesh or bitter skin;

Or just gently choose with a finger’s kiss,

Pluck on up, bite down, and lick my lips.