Here, on the old shore road
where Lake Ontario gathers the wind
and the work-worn earth —
I pause in the hush
between Sunday and ordinary time.

At shoreline’s hem — a slope of grass
succumbs to orchards.
Look, how the morning glistens every surface green,
dew slick and the air sweet as the first juice
that will run down my wrists in minutes, I promise —
but hold, not yet.

I listen to the bees
advising patience,
the trees dreaming out loud
in their slow language
of sweetness and shade.
Above, the peaches holding their silence —
I reach for what seems most ready,
but remember ripeness is a patient art.

Isn’t it joyful, this small ritual —
a single sun-warmed peach,
veiled with soft fur,
offering itself to morning light?
I reach —
not greedily but grateful,
so grateful —
and hold it in my palm.

I am unreasonably happy,
nearly laughing,
knowing it is a kind of luck
to exist in the precise hour
a peach says taste me.

And when I finally bite,
the world flares radiant for an instant:
juice, bare feet, cheek, sun, sky —
all entirely enough —
and for a breathless moment,
I am reminded:
all searching is prayer,
and all finding is grace.