Perhaps only—the
shyest and
quietest of
blushing poets know—its overwhelmingly
if not precisely—the subtle
little uncountable
zillions!
of spangled strawyellow
summer suns refracted—
in each
faceted droplet
of condensation colonizing
every curve
of its nonetheless
crimson-
flushed cheeks—
that make
a furtive thing
like a chilled
nectarine—worth mentioning.