Summer in the Orchard, Lancaster, PA

The woman in a shapeless, pink dress
picks peaches, carrying them
in a large cardboard box. She reaches,
pulls, drops each fruit
in, one after the other,
moving slowly around the old tree
whose branches stretch beyond her view
when she stands beneath them.
 
Her hair is bound into a roll
the size and shape of a peach at the back
of her head. A small, white triangle
of lace perches on top. Her hands rise and fall,
gather and let go
with the grace of practice.
 
Some are too ripe. Some are too green.
Most are just right
and will be canned instead of boiled
into pie. Flies and gnats zip across skin
of the fruit and her arms. An occasional
wasp buzzes close, abandoning caution
for the love of sweet leftovers.
 
The woman stops, eats a ripe peach
because she is thirsty and temptation
is too much around. She moves on
to the next tree, and so on,
down the rows until the shadows
of trees and evening
swallow the peaches, branches,
insects, sweat and fruit stains
smearing her dress, her face, her hands.
 
Leaves tremble among the shrieking of cicadas.
Trees drop overripe fruit into the furrows
between them. Cells blossom,
ripening, piling upon each other,
become seeds and the sweet juice of
impermanent, fleeting delights.