Wednesday, January 16, 2008


Durazno Dulce

It's January,
and I'm eating a ripe peach.
The cool flesh quenches me
like a South Carolina breeze
off the distant mountain ridges.
I can almost taste the sweet clover
growing between the orchard rows
when I close my eyes and chew slowly.

It's funny,
that this fuzzy, half-eaten fruit
is from the country of Chile
and not from Greer, or Cooley Springs.
Though I've been down Highway 25,
long before it turned four-lane,
I can't quite picture the towering Andes
or feel the wind from their snow-capped peaks.


Granny Sue said...

I find it strange that we are so disconnected from our food. Not so long ago peaches and strawberries were only available at certain times of the year; now we can get them at Christmas if we want.

Your piece captured the disconnect clearly. I especially liked your ending lines.

Byron said...

Sitting here in 10 degree weather, wishing I had one of those peaches! Nice piece.

David Wayne Hampton: said...

Thanks for the feedback, y'all. If you haven't already got the chance, check out Robert Morgan's poem "Canning Time". (It's included in Strange Attractor: New and Selected Poems). I think it's the perfect poem about canning peaches. It makes me wish I had a syrupy jar of my grandmother's every time I read it.

Granny Sue said...

Got some in the cellar, David--not your grandmother's but the taste of home-canned can't be beat. Nice and cold too, with the recent weather!

Somewhere I have a peaches poem too; I'll have to dig it out and see if it's worth posting.