Dave Bonta's "Windfall" is a tiny poem that turns on a wish. The speaker hopes that "a small god" will keep astonishing us, and then points to a single image: a peach hanging high on the tree, holding on against the wind. The poem never says whose god this is or where the peach is. It lets the picture do the work.
The title is a clever nudge. A windfall is fruit blown down from the tree, or a piece of unexpected good luck. Yet the peach here stays up, so the poem seems to find wonder in what resists falling as much as in what drops into our hands. The word "chance" adds to this: the peach's survival looks like luck, not design.
The mood is quiet, light, and a little playful. The "small" god suggests modest, everyday marvels rather than grand miracles. The speaker sounds grateful and gently amazed, as if noticing one stubborn piece of fruit were reason enough for faith.