Peach Benediction

That last piece of fruit

Sitting in the peach juice pool

At the bottom of the bread bowl,

More easily drunk than sliced,

Ripeness dripping from its

Blanched and peeled flesh,

Shall not follow the others

Into bottles scrubbed and boiled,

Topped with brass lids,

Steamed shut—

Shall not be sugared, syruped, or preserved.

For I shall eat it.

It is my just dessert.