It’s probably sacrilegious to say this
But I feel that eating summer-peaches,
Them bursting with sweet and sticky syrup
Running down my fingers, face and chin,
Is (almost) sacramental.
We’re told of the visible signs of the invisible reality
And I hear you on marriage, communion, reconciliation, et al.
But somehow my spine-craned posture over the kitchen sink
Opens my eyes every summer, once again,
To the wonder of miraculous creation.
How does this even happen??
We start with a BRANCH and add a long winter
And the fuzzy-butt dance of fragile bees
And we end up with a down-covered orb of
Liquid amber, delightful and refreshing
As I crane over the sink so as not to ruin
My green-lace sundress and I lift my eyes to heaven.
My God, we do not deserve your expansive, wonder-filled goodness
This season or ever,
But I bless your name
In the cathedral of suburban-kitchen
With the prayer of peaches
Steady upon my heart.