Two Volunteer Peach Trees Out Near the Compost

It is almost as though your eyes
step back, or recuse themselves after they drag you
to the flowers that look like a flock
of teeny flamingos, wings unlocked for balance,
and flash. For it’s the flock’s perfume that puckers
your mouth into a kiss, the better to smell this pink fritillary
fiesta which, pulled closer still by your nose
until you are almost inside the flower
makes you be smooching the bloom
unbeknownst almost though the smooching
and the sniffing makes you swoon. The sniffing which
includes the stamen’s many fingers entering your nose,
entering you, who, which, too beckon
the swoon, and too beckon you back
to the bloom. As for the smell
of these papery chalices, these chenille chapels,
they smell really good, and the smelling feels
that way too. In your gums sometimes you feel it,
and in the tips of your fingers, in your guts like
hunger sometimes too. And too you feel it
in your eyes, which you close for some probably
animal reason, to maybe more deeply plant the tree
in your mind, which is in your body. And when you’ve finally
been released by the scent, reeling though you may be,
your eyes can see what
they could not before: the petals’ backlit
shimmer, how they sparkle like stars
before they fall.