The Gift

by Sherry Jennings


The peach fell from the tree.
I plucked it from the tillering grasses.
Ripe, warm, juicy,
the sweet, sticky nectar slid across my lips,
circling the contours of my cheeks.
The sun juice dripped from my chin;
droplets rolling to my elbows
as I held the succulent fruit to my mouth.
The naughty temptress,
offering her breast-soft flesh,
had just given me the gift
of tasting summer.