Nectarines

I buy nectarines sometimes.

Their skins are red and yellow

and smooth.

Their shapes are round

and plump.

I put them in a bag for several days.

Then I wash one.

I slice it into quarters,

discarding the pit.

I bite into the flesh.

It is sweet and firm

and tender and juicy

and nutritious

and fruity -

next to a lump of coal.

But I had a nectarine,

once.

If I could I would take you to that tree,

it grew in earth near Fresno,

California, in an orchard.

The memory lingers

in my imagination,

but the nectarines were

on the trees.

There was more red in their skins.

They were no rounder

but their plumpness approached

that of the size of grapefruits.

I do not remember washing them.

I do not remember slicing them into quarters.

I do remember sweet nectariness in my mouth.

I do remember juicy goodness running down

my chin and fingers.

They say perfection does not exist,

and even goodness is fleeting.

But I don’t care about all that.

I have tasted what I have tasted,

and I want more.

I will accept lesser goodness

than I have known,

and I will try to savor and celebrate

what is sweet

and somewhat nectariny.

But if I could,

I would take you to the tree,

and we would walk

hand in hand,

and step by giddy, solemn step,

and grasp on earth

as it was imagined in heaven.

And the ants would lick

the juice

from our plump

and sleeping faces

as we rested,

beneath the tree of life,

satisfied,

in the dying

sun.