Margaret burst in through the door with it.
â€œA melon, a ripe melon,
From the patch in the greenhouse,â€ she spoke,
Breathless with her find.
â€œSmell it,â€ she said, and thrust it under my nose.
The scent of such a fruit, the feel of it warm in the hand
Pushes one to wild abandon;
We sat down there at the table, knife in hand,
And devoured it, licking our sweet fingers.
Now fifteen Iroquois Canteloupe seeds are drying
On a Mason plate on the shelf
For next year.