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 from Rose
On this farm orchard in the north, it’s a harvest of apples and pears rather than peaches.
Each day we fill up on sauce and juice as fruit rains down in the winds of late summer.
Only four months ago these were mere buds opening up to soft petals raining like snow in the spring breezes. Impossibly, those blossoms became fruit that will sustain us through a bare winter.
From joy to joy to joy. From wing to wing to wing. From season to season to season.
Impossible gifts of grace.