Friday, September 6, 2013
Yesterday we went end-of-season peach-picking and the air was odorous with the perfume of perfect ripeness. It went to your head. You had half a mind to roll in it like a dog.
I took a picture of my son, 8, at a peach like a cheetah tearing into the side of gazelle. Ferocious. All teeth and juice and un-retractable claw and vulgar gulps with peach running down his chin which is exactly how one should approach a peach, I think. No other fruit demands such wild abandon; like a follower of the god Pan, you want to bang a tambourine and yodel, and do a country dance that involves leaping.
Of course I picked too much! How could one not? "O for a beaker full of the warm south!" A bushel of peaches inspires one to quote Keats! They're the pink of a conch shell, golden as the light this time of year, and fuzzy as cherubs' buttocks that cavort at the edges of a Renaissance painting blowing the sweet little breaths of air that push Venus toward you.