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