Mid-September
and the west wind
carries the smell of peaches
fermenting on the ground,

and I think
how we tended our love
like an orchard
only to abandon
the harvest
in summer's final days,

But I remember the
fertile promise
of your kisses
in February,

the taste of lambic
on your lips

and wonder
if we'll taste the wine
of forgotten fruits
some distant
winter night.