The Perfect Peach

Ray Bub

I am burning up the perfect wood.
Two-year-old heartwood sugar maple,
Passed over last year,
Saved for a cold cold week that never came.
Now it is cold.

Burned or left unburned
These hard heavy chunks will lose their heat
To ash or rot.

Last summer
I held in my hand
The perfect peach
Grown on a tree I planted.

Not eaten, my
Succulent sweet peach soon would spoil.

The commonplace exquisite beauty.
The bloom, the breeze, the warmth.
The touch, the taste.
The coming decay,
Rotten bruised punky overripe.

The next peach.
The healthy vigor.
The perfect blush.
The solid heavy hard heat.

The fascinating love grief ride.