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A Poem

Hear this read aloud below


A ripe peach is soft and must be handled with care

Housed beneath its tender skin lies

the most glorious sweetness imaginable

As it ripens, the skin loosens

for the meat within

to ooze its juice

When a peach is ready to be picked

it makes its way into the world

To be sold, traded

and it's worth



Those that look fresh and new

bring the highest price

The skin must be taut, firm,

and free of blemishes

to be viewed as worthy

of a front row seat on the grocers shelf

The sign says “tree ripened” and the price is high

But a peach cannot fully ripen on a tree

It must have time on its own to mature,

to develop its own luscious taste

This is the just the beginning of a process

that will one day yield a precious sap

A woman’s ripening is much like that of a peach

It begins once she has been “picked”

First she is new and fresh,

firm and solid

Her flesh is tight, holding her juices at bay

The world views her as worthy

of placement on the top shelf

Media ads cater to her,

movies are made about her

and fashion is geared her way


The sign says “ripe”, but she is not

A woman cannot ripen in youth

It takes life, wisdom and experience

for her precious nectar to mature

And yield its heavenly aroma

It is at the point when she is considered

past her prime for the marketplace

That she begins to fully ripen

With her bumps and bruises in view

Her flesh softens

allowing her juices to flow freely

The softer she becomes,

the less the world looks her way

She is dismissed as old and used,

valued as less

Then, left alone to determine

the significance of her life’s gifts

Without the attention of the outside world

She can experience the magnificent sweetness

flowing through her body

Her eyes become less crucial

and her soul leads the way

She is no longer for sale

No longer someone else’s commodity

to barter and trade

"Emergence of the Priestess"

With the world no longer looking her way

Measuring her against others

newly picked from the trees

Her blemishes and bruises

Skin lacking its youthful luster

And her body,

softened and molded by time

Do not trouble her as much

She is left behind with the freedom of invisibility

to live as she chooses

Her juice flows,

gifting others with the taste of sweet nectar

that appears

only with full ripening

It is the nectar, not the flesh that is priceless

A mystifying nectar that enriches the soul

Those who partake of it

frivolously pronounce it

“A gift from the Gods”

Little do they know

It is

DK Hillard 2014

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