How a peach preserved 

then tasted in Winter 

instantly reminds us of Summer, 

all the sweeter on tongues that still remember 

warm juices from peaches 

picked fresh in an August steam heat, 

that’s the magic I seek 

when I dream of Fall, long for 

tender apples, crisp days, 

when the taste of things slow grown, 

slow picked, slower prepared 

awaken memories of how we’ve changed, 

season after season, 

when yellow, red, orange flames drift 

down to the ground, 

daring to be stomped out, 

layering the path with vivid reminders 

of how the surrounding trees once 

clung to one another, leaves intertwined, 

of how secrets, once so tightly kept, 

will soon be exposed through bare limbs, 

of how even the trees must let go of precious things, 

become vulnerable, make room for growth, 

their fallen leaves, casualties of our journey 

around the sun, setting 

the stage for that time of reflection, 

when things once green become dormant, 

hide under blankets of snow, 

when we’ll seek warmth indoors, 

nibble and sip things minty, 

light the spark inside 

that, come Spring, 

will lead us out of Winter’s dark, 

nourish the seeds we’ll plant, 

dream of the fruits they’ll bear, 

begin to taste the bittersweet.