The orchard a sensation of sweetness
grown ripe, an inkling of my insignificance
as I savor that first taste.
There is a certain joy to realizing
how happy I can be
with peach juice on my dress.
This moment of knowing I don’t know the breeze —
not the birds nor the blooms that dot the green hills.
I know only this sudden smallness that recognizes me
as I stand here aware and alien, separate and yet not,
eating a peach at the end of a stormy June. Sharing
the tree with monarchs and bees and one spotted fawn,
unknowing of all I don’t know, but, at last,
fully conscious of the possibility of flight
and this hunger to touch the sky.