2012/orchard

I’ve always wantged
an orchard, still
I count the last twelve peaches
with a sense of good
riddance relief.
Thinking I need to simplify
my life, as I wash the dishes.
I’d have to die, of course,
to have less happening.
But the stresses and chores
seem unrelenting.
The last of the peach tree
netting hangs on the
top of the tree.
Tomorrow when my will
is hopefully stronger
I’ll drag the step stool
outback and fetch it.
Spread it on the grass
and do what I can to
make a tidy fold
of an unwieldy (mess) thing.
Store it in the shed
I hate to enter until
next year.
I do not like this netting
and feel convinced the
peach tree shares my disdain.
Its branches wrpped
tight, its leaves bent.
But it’s the only way
to salvage any fruit
from the crows.
(I don’t know how else to
salvage any fruit.)
So all peach season
I reach under
the sticky web to see
what peaches are ready
to drop into my hand.
Often they plunge into
the netting instead,
like a trapeze artist
in a confident fall,
their arms raised.
Late July.
I’m sick of slicing,
of peeling, truth
be told – though
I feel ashamed to say so.
Not one pie this year,
nor freezer jam.
Just peaches sliced
in oatmeal and
frozen yogurt,
mixed together
enough to imagine
it’s homemade
ice cream.

6/26/12