I Will Rot

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.