Why, every July, does it all come at once?
All of it ripe, luscious, kissed with divine nectars
magnificent enough to be their own wines.
The dark red Washington cherries, each one
a perfect sumptuous mouthful worked away
from its hard round pit, a bite of scarlet nirvana.
The blueberries, full and firm, fresh picked
from their mountain patch wearing remnants
of clouds and tasting of pure high country air.
Peaches, golden with a brush of blush, filling
the mouth with sunshine and honey,
a dervish of ecstasy dancing on the tongue.
Watermelons, firm fat green orbs split open
to a dripping feast of succulent red flesh,
an orgy of wet summer extravagance.
And cantaloupes, their knotty rinds holding
those beautiful sunset melon slices
of musky exaltations, savored in fits of swoon.
I have no boundaries in this season
of drunkenness, no restraints, as I load
my basket with the ambrosia of the gods,
helpless to pick and choose, gorging
shamelessly on the bounty, eyes closed
in a stupor of reverie, lips lush with indulgence.


© by Beverly Finney.
Used with the author’s permission.