I wish I were a peach
But then
I'd rot away. Imagine—
A young blossom hopeful,
Beautiful, gulping the sun.
Sailing in the breeze as
Branches grow fruitful.
Unripened and truthfully
Soft to hardships.
Bracing storms and smoky
Heat. Droughts have not stopped
Me from fulfillment.
I am pastel.
I am mature—no longer a blossom.
I fall from the tree—branches
Cross above me, a web in my eyes,
A view to show me that I'll
Never reach the glittering sky on the
Other side of the stretching limbs
Enclosing me.
I am in the grass and dirt,
With rocks as friends and ants
I must shoo away.
I will rot.
I will be okay.