Skip to main content

Peach Tree on Winfield, a poem by Kyle Hunter


Peach Tree on Winfield

I am only afraid of what lives in the dark corners

of my shed when I force myself to plan

a time to retrieve the mower. I have growing affection

for the weeds that search their way through

my chain-link fence, in beautiful reaching,

that eat at the edges of my driveway, 

that play in the lines of my sidewalk.

I imagine God,

Adam, and Eve would be displeased
with the way that I tend

to neglect. I pick a peach tree

at the garden shop, thinking about this

and about my unborn son. Buckled in the back seat,

dangling vernal limbs out the car window,

it rides home to be tucked in

under sumptuous soil blankets

in view of the kitchen window.

From there I do nothing but watch

letting a little time pass. I feel my neglect

is being rewarded

when juices soak my beard

and fill his pudgy cheeks.

Kyle Hunter's poems have appeared in Main Street Rag, Rockvale Review, So It Goes, Gravel, and elsewhere. When he's not writing or wrangling his five young children, he practices law and dreams about making good use of his BFA in oil painting.