The sweetest smell you could ever dream of wafts slowly

Like molasses

Through the thick, broiling summer air

Cut by the clearest, bluest skies

The nectarines rot as they fall, neglected 

Onto the green grass and blooming daisies,

Buzzing with bees and swarmed by butterflies

The tram burts through the brush as visitors scramble to pick the best,

Juciest,

Peachy-orangey-ish,

Plumpest nectarine

In the scramble and hustle and bustle of the race

The rotted nectarines

Smush and mush into something,

Something that almost resembles my nectarine baby food

It almost resembles
When our house was warmed by one log all winter and

The canned baby food sometimes fed the whole family,

When I had no toys but I had a stick

And a pile of mud
And the sickeningly sweet smell of rotted nectarines

And the broiling summer air

And the bluest skies

And the greenest grass and blooming daisies

And the buzzing bees and the swarming butterflies

And the hustling and bustling tram

And my nectarine baby food