Stone fruit season is around the corner
but I'm in a whirl: panties in a wad,
lump in the throat. This was not the tornado
that threw an 80-ton train clear across the sky,
not the one that plucked the feathers
out of chickens and left them bald
and wild in a dusty Kansas field. One May,
J. and I tried to race a storm across the state line.
This was back when we were young enough
to smoke, litter, hope to live forever.
All these seasons later, I've learned little.
I still reach my hands into bins; it's like
I believe I can squeeze the peaches into ripeness.