Читать книгу Tart Honey - Deborah Burnham - Страница 11

1.

Peaches on a blue plate, on blue linen,

ripening as slowly as the sun

fades into night. Sometimes wind will make them

fall so softly that they lie unbruised

among the rough grass, the knobby roots.

I’d like to cut ripe peaches for you,

lay one bright crescent, then another

on your tongue so you could squeeze the juice

around your mouth, then kiss me.

2.

The sage who counseled “Live in the exact

center of each moment” must have had one

ripe peach in mind, in hand, his mouth

dry from trying to say “no” so gently

to Desire, in late August when the lightest

touch on rosemary or basil sends sharp

perfume into the air like smoke, so willing

to diffuse itself into the dry heat.