Returning from the County Fair,
We were chased home
By the recent risen moon
Large as a house and ocherous as a ripened gourd
And by a cold front charging over the edge of the Caprock,
Rushing autumn upon us.
As clouds arrived, rain smacked against the car like hail.
Still dizzy from ferris wheel and roller-coaster rides
And ready to snuggle into cotton candy dreams,
At last we reached home
To find the wind had wrestled with our peach trees,
Making them loose their grip
On fistfuls of fruit.
Now littering the ground
Were the bruised fragrant orbs -
Some soft as mud, already making jam,
Some firm, partly green.
The velvety globes had to be gathered
In bushel baskets to arrest any further damage.
Hours later collapsing from exhaustion,
We tumbled into pink dreams
Perfumed with sweat and peaches.
And in my sleep, I was plumped on piles
Of that fuzz plucked from the skins
Like down from goslings;
A dream suffused with light from that Harvest Moon.
Lillian Susan Thomas
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-freestone-drops-into-dreams-will-it-ripple/
