First Fruits

By Len Kuntz

She picked me an early summer peach and held it out like a crystal ball and said to eat from her hand like a little lamb and she laughed, the wind lilting around her, the wild lawns hazy-green shimmering gray-streaked with grace.  She asked me if we would always be this happy, so dependent, innocent, when about to answer a crooked trickle of juice jagged off my chin and onto the bed of my chest where it caught fuzzy white pinwheels, and she said, “Like that dandelion seed there?”