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