As a child, I hated it.
The trick, then, was to wait
Until the moment passed
And what was ripe started to rot.

Ammi would take the soft, moldering fruit
And, scooping out the indignities,
Those dark brown ravages of neglect,
Concoct a sweet riot - a salad for dessert.

Now, in the wilderness of these adult years,
My eyes wander down the aisle and rest
On a crate of peaches,
Cuddled asleep, cheek to cheek.