Peaches

Mary Copeland

Sweet September peaches

From the roadside fruitstand

Drip nectar from

The corners of my mouth

Their sticky glaze clinging

To my hands.

 

Fingers to mouth

I lick

One, two, three,

Four, five

Then reach for another

The soft fuzz

Tickling my lips

Swallowing

Summer's concession to 

Fall.