As dragonflies of blue, green and orange
Skip and flit aimlessly across the pond,
She sees her blotchy faced reflection rippling
Into a grotesque monstrous picture of self.

All her days have been spent here.  

Picking wildflowers in the meadow;
Napping under the two hundred year old live oak,
With the Spanish moss providing shade 
During the hottest and most humid southern months. 
Fishing in this very pond. 

She never imagined leaving. 

Picnicking in the peach grove in July
Had been her favorite pastime,
The sweet smell of the flawless fruit
Drooping from their branches. 

Would she ever be back here in July?

Like raindrops hanging loosely onto their cloud
Just before the burst of energy that propels them
to the ground. 
The peaches have been the perfect genteel hostesses
Her entire life. 

It is unfathomable that she does not get to choose. 

Although she has known from a young age
Who here betrothed would be,
Today seemed like a distant time in space
That would never actually come. 

Her mother had not prepared her for the reality of eighteen.

She senses eyes at her back
So she turns toward the house,
There on the marble balcony stand
Her mother, her father, and her future. 

They wave and smile. How stupid they are. 

She walks toward the peach grove
Spends precious minutes searching for the
Perfect
             Fruit.

Spying it high in the smallest peach tree,
She plucks the least ripe one from a branch
Bites into it
Waves back. 

She feels a sense of freedom that was new to her. 

Steps onto the log
She placed here yesterday. 
Pulls the hidden noose from behind the tree
And slips it around her neck. 

The stupid trio’s smiles disapate. 

As they watch with horror on their faces,
She waves and smiles once more,
Then jumps. 

She will remain here in the peach grove.
Picnicking her way through eternity. 
She would rather be here eating
The 
        Least
                   Ripe 
                              Peach. 

 This is her choice.