I first saw you
in the exotic fruits aisle
of the grocery store
as you made your way
among brightly colored hybrids,
your arm extending,
choosing which to place
in the basket that you wore
like a corsage.
You must have seen me
trying to be surreptitious in the produce.
Your eyes rose from the tayberries.
You smiled,
handed me a soft, flat fruit,
and went about your day,
your fragrance
blending, lingering
with peach,
and I breathed deep
a sublime world of plum-cots
and orangelos.
I didn’t get your name.
We’ve never had a conversation
nor a stroll along the beach,
but I have walked
amid the sweet olallieberries,
the full-bodied ortaniques,
and when I bite
into a ripened saturn peach,
I think of you.
