This peach, pink and ruby and golden yellow,
with just the velvety hint of a granny-cheeked down,
is soft and ripe.
My knife slices until it finds the pit
and as I tease it apart the flesh tells
me that it is ready.
I have caught it just as I wanted it.
Yesterday the yellow was too pale,
and tomorrow the tiny mark where
it hit the floor when I dropped it
will have spread like a sore,
browning, with a ring of white scum.
Today is the day it is sweet and just about
perfect.
Today, this moment.
And so we too are made of moments
when luck or guile have lead to life, or not.
And I ask myself, is only one moment the right moment?
Is perfection all?
And, how precise does the instant have to be to
produce the perfect pinnacle.
And if it has to be so precise,
how will I ever find it, feel it, know it
amongst all the other moments?
I don’t want perfection.
I am happy with a firmer fruit
that I can sprinkle a glitter of sugar on.
Or a small bruise that I can cut out
to reveal its golden bounty.
And when I smell the moment,
it will be sweet enough.
I had bought some peaches for a pudding I was making yesterday and, not surprisingly, they were not ripe. I was disappointed that they were not perfect, not as I wanted them to be. But by the time I had added sugar, toasted almonds, almond essence and some mascarpone and cooked them in my tart they were fine. It hadn’t mattered in the end that they were not perfect …
Writing Whatnots 