Such Fine Down

The peach tree’s leaves
Wave past the bricks—
Green leaves, red bricks,
All gold in sun,

And I can smell
That warm fruit’s skin,
From when I held
A gift, months since,

And bit. Still wet.
I need new words,
New thoughts for this—
How the weak sense

Of a faint scent
Floats off a scene
When seen through glass.
You had such skin.