Poetry at the Market

Iroquois Canteloupe

Margaret burst in through the door with it.

“A melon, a ripe melon,

From the patch in the greenhouse,” she spoke,

Breathless with her find.

“Smell it,” 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.