Ode to a Cantaloupe

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Ode to a Cantaloupe

Ripe woman

so long in the sun,

skin thick, leathery, with veins

etched like filigree scars

of knowing,

one flat cheek

where you listened

to the earth,

I feel for you

among the rock hards,

fingertips perching, alert

on heads, searching

for you alone,

who have begun to return

inside to the waters

of yourself,

retreating slightly

at the meridians

that circle like rivers

to enter you.

With simple hope,

I carry you home

tucked in my elbow,

sweet

mystery.

On the board

on the table,

at the horizon

of the knife, heavily,

with a groan,

you fall open, glistening —

Rippling sunrise of fruits!

ascending

from Michigan lakes

and soil,

pastel and vibrant orange

wet soft firmness,

mellow honey,

gentle watery

weight.

A good spoon

and I scoop

dripping seeds out

of your natural bowl

then slide into the easy

flesh, shining spoon

cradling a moon bite

to my

warm trembling

tongue, momentarily

apprehensive

of flavorless

disappointment.

But you are achingly yes —

cool, tender,

a velvet miracle

of flesh,

light

and water,

part musk, part honey,

a quiet rising,

unearthed, clean

into sky,

morning sun

baptized into my happy,

eager

new-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.

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