Peach Stand
by Karen Paul Holmes
The deep-rooted farmer sits
on a folding chair next
to his fruit stand;
Wolfpen Ridge peaks
through clouds behind him.
Peach slices slip
into a white enameled bowl
with chipped red rim.
Juice drips down wrists.
He beckons with knife,
holds out a generous wedge,
“Tell me if this ain’t the best
thing you ever et.”
Yes. Wet, ripe,
like the honeyed sunset
blooming over Lake Chatuge.
He picks out
an unblemished dozen for me
moving speckled hands
from baskets to brown bag.
I pay inside and start to leave
but the farmer beckons again,
presents another piece.
In these Blue Ridge valleys,
peach stands dot summer highways.
But I only stop for his,
somehow consistent
through drought and rain.
When Atlanta calls me back
each August end,
I buy as many as I can use;
two weeks of pies, sorbet,
or cut fresh atop Greek yogurt.
I rely on the old man’s stand
for three summers.
Then one season, a
young man
sits in the folding chair, smiles
when I guess he’s the grandson.
The next year, the stand’s gone.
I test other peaches along GA 76
or from the back of a rusty truck
parked weekends at the hardware
but often bite into bland,
mealy disappointment.
When lucky, my tongue
swims in sweet juice
basks in that certain spice—
a peach equal
to the old man’s delight.