I plucked you precious from an orchard rich and ripe.
Your peach of a face
and fulgent soul
pinched me into fixation.
We ushered you in,
applauding you dizzy,
pampering you de trop.
Pompous, perhaps,
but you deserved nothing less.
A primrose-glow paints your cheek.
Your scent is sea pink.
Who could have guessed,
who would have thought
that into my unexpecting palm
this perfect peach would plop
with such sapor, such zest,
and ever-ripen, never rot?