Douglas Forsythe, Poet, Columnist

The reddish hue of its yellowed skin ran ripe with juice as the knife sank into the fresh peach. The juicy slash it made as it entered the fruit, each slice finely forming yet never fragmenting. Then, one by one, the crunch of each slice is pulled from the pit and put on a paper towel. Placing them into a porcelain bowl, I opened the door; the fresh autumn breeze entering my hollowed lungs as leaves flew by.