If Peaches Could Be Painters

If peaches could be painters

And paint themselves each day,

Would they incline toward Renoir

Or grow themselves Monet?

How grow the summer fruit trees,

Do they blush with Renoir,

Or tincture selves with sunsets

That only Monet saw?

No matter, there the sap runs

In colors like God’s blood,

Renoir and Monet blended

And ripened toward the good.

And where Renoir stops painting

And where Monet starts spell,

Only the ripe-fruit summer

Can know, but will not tell.