From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the backgroud; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
* Happy Birthday, Mum. I love you xo
[Emma and her beautiful dress]
I do some of my best brain-storming in Starbucks, iPod plugged in, caffeine on a drip and notebook in hand. The iPod not only focusses my mind but also drowns out the cackles and hollers from the teenage girls that sit in packs on the sofas, slurping their frappucinos and hot chocolates. However, if you'd have visted Starbucks yesterday you would have witnessed six thirty-something bloggers sitting in a circle doing a fair amount of cackling and hollering themselves.
Of course, we sounded like a bunch of geeks, talking about stats and comments and Squam; about who knows who, with their strange code names like Dooce and Swirly [sidenote: obviously none of us know Dooce personally]. Sloping away from Jamie's and his impossible waiting times we retired to Wagamama for noodles and green tea; more coffee came later, and a pit stop by the weir for the all-important photoshoot:
Thank you for a wonderful day, ladies – I'll see you all very soon!