Ode to a Cantaloupe
Ripe womanso long in the sun,skin thick, leathery, with veinsetched like filigree scarsof knowing,one flat cheekwhere you listenedto the earth,
I feel for youamong the rock hards,fingertips perching, alerton heads, searchingfor you alone,who have begun to returninside to the watersof yourself,retreating slightlyat the meridiansthat circle like riversto enter you.
With simple hope,I carry you hometucked in my elbow,sweetmystery.
On the boardon the table,at the horizonof the knife, heavily,with a groan,you fall open, glistening —
Rippling sunrise of fruits!ascendingfrom Michigan lakesand soil,pastel and vibrant orangewet soft firmness,mellow honey,gentle wateryweight.
A good spoonand I scoopdripping seeds outof your natural bowlthen slide into the easyflesh, shining spooncradling a moon biteto mywarm tremblingtongue, momentarilyapprehensiveof flavorlessdisappointment.
cool, tender,a velvet miracleof flesh,lightand water,part musk, part honey,a quiet rising,unearthed, cleaninto sky,morning sunbaptized into my happy,eagernew-day body.
A poem about something I love, humbly, in the tradition of Pablo Neruda, master of elementary odes.
Photo of cantaloupe shared via Creative Commons by John Bosley.