Grandma says

that peaches are the best fruit.

Sticky and sweet, with

yellow flesh and rosy cheeks,

and pink in my mind's eye.

A salve for mental wounds,

she said.


She grew up

with the greatest big peach trees

in her backyard.

They overlooked her farm

with its golden rye

and indigo grass so fragrant

it bit the roots of my throat.


She sang her peaches soft in the summer

and reaped them ripe for her brothers

and watched them grow

in the French sun,

dancing with them when they fell

and loving them into pâtisserie.


These days I pick her peaches

as she watches for the last time

the trees that touched

her mother, and hers before,

and water the ground

when her fingers are too old.


Doing my part

in the namesake of sisterhood

for the indefinite daughters

to come.


These are the peaches,

great pink European peaches,

That are the sweetest.


-- Sophie Fyfe