Picking Peaches, a prose poem

 Reposted from FB on 25MAY09

Picking Peaches

I spent this Memorial Day under a perfect, blue, cloudless, Arizona sky 

as the sun shimmered down upon my brown, and red and blonde and silver hair

whilst I tromped through the--sometimes--waist-high, unkempt grass in search

of beautiful red-orange perfection.

I spent this Memorial Day under the sun as she tanned everything on my arms 

except that odd, upside-down triangle scar on my left wrist

whilst I watched the yellow and blue and white and purple weeds trumpeting

their unintentional, yet beautiful praises of perfection.

I spent this Memorial Day under the sun as she warmed my freckled 

Scottish and Irish and English and Cherokee face

whilst I flitted through fields, playing with the white butterflies who must have 

just escaped from their ugly cocoons into a world where were 

suddenly and perfectly beautiful.

Then, I remembered on this beautiful Memorial Day

whilst I tromped and watched and flitted that EVERYTHING,

even the most ugly and imperfect things, can be beautiful and perfect 

when they truly touch God.