Perfect day--full ripe,
Like the baskets of peaches
Lined against the kitchen wall.
Golden, pink, rich russet,
Succulent, bursting fruit.
Perfect peaches--full, ripe,
Like my straining belly
Heavy with new life.
An autumn harvest, smooth, taut,
Planted when winter ice glazed the windows.
Perfect grandmother--full, ripe,
A warm cosset of wisdom,
Guides my hand as I pare and slice.
Up from the coast, she came
To put up fruit and deliver my child.
Jeweled bottles bask in the waning sun.
The kitchen cools. She pats my cheek,
Her smiling approval enough.
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