The Peach


Like a dream, she’s peaches and cream.

Fuzzy skin tasting of milk and honey.

She blossoms but once a year.

To fruit through fame and fear.

‘Though she’s got no money.

She blushes, red on yellow gold.

In days so bright and sunny.

Her, I must hold, before she’s old.

I laugh, though it’s not funny.

For though I hold her in my hand,

And her juices flow to my tummy.

She’s just a fruit from a tree.

And never will be my honey.

Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull



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