Somehow, the season had nearly passed without a single peach.
She had gone for late afternoon bike rides, watched boys
swing warm-up bats on the high school diamond, walked a Cape Cod beach
soundtracked by gulls, and gone to sleep with the consonant noise
of a window fan. And yet, nothing could align her with summer
like that fruit, the brushed silk of its skin, the golden wash of flesh
meeting her tongue, that whistle of a pit. Nothing, really, could touch her
like sweetness. And she saw, as dewdrops of it now wove fresh
tracks down her chin, how quickly her own body brightened and grew,
and she wondered how it would be if she offered more of her sugar, too.