-open-
I miss them. Not that I have ever tasted them – not the real ones, not the ones untouched by mankind. Not the ones ripening under the sun on rolling hills, bursting with sugar and juice. But even those artificial copies were better than none. That acrid-sweet flavor, the stinging emotion rolling down your throat. They are gone, now. Only empty cans left. No trees left either. None left where you can sit in its shadow and wait for the peaches to ripe, grow and ripe until they fall on your open hands. Sweeter than honey. Bitter than honey. Gone. Burnt down, dead. Empty cans. The juice and life gone – to where? Where have all the peaches gone?
Beyond the fences, the trees grow still…
Lock.
-locked-
