This lovely little memory snapshot is by Charles Simic, from his book, "Master of Disguises."
The Melon
There was a melon fresh from the garden
So ripe the knife slurped
As it cut it into six slices.
The children were going back to school.
Their mother, passing out paper plates,
Would not live to see the leaves fall.
I remember a hornet, too, that flew in
Through the open window
Mad to taste the sweet fruit
While we ducked and screamed,
Covered our heads and faces,
And sat laughing after it was gone.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
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1 comment:
Ominous and ripe with omens
I remember, Friday I picked up a packet of Prosciutto.
Quarter priced it was, I had to confirm it at the register
It had rang up at the full price, as is often the case.
No small melons had found my fancy.
Or non-to-be-found, I don’t remember which it was.
I had thought earlier to examine a pair of bosc pares
They were ripe, skin sallow, bumpy like older flesh,
As delicate as the wrists of a woman with an untold story.
Hardly blemished with small brown healed scratches,
I did not bring them with me to the till counter
In the bell jar under the glass lid, near the shrinking apple slices,
The pineapple has developed a bluegreen fuzz on the rough-cut core
Diagonal sawed white ridges like bone or bleached wood emerge.
On the sides, its green emerald diamonds are deeper darkened.
Still hard, it smells sour, musky, but not yet unpleasant.
It will now mildew slowly.
Under gray skies, it will never ripen.
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