![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRqpdIgcXVFBvKQ_6Pk5AUr4VZF7OEchyphenhyphen16R9N7_jz5so_4HKpafAZvY77Om0A_BEShI_sZfdotqWzI9Pni4JGo82eieie2ha-oRjml5yHbCpNJWpYgKWPt_ExgkwWpeqVAIZNn__41pk/s1600/b0ef7feadbe874b1ba61b1bca79bcb99_large.jpg)
over sassier summer
fruits, carved offerings
of purple, yellow,
red in a supermarket
stunned with
fluorescent light.
Seeing her slice it open,
ponder how the melon
secrets its exquisite
pastel beneath a rough,
webby exterior, silent
protest to the showy
outer life of
its every former
neighbor—apple,
banana, strawberry, grape.
Later on, recall
the knife’s decisiveness,
the sudden exposure of
such a pleasing hue,
its juicy glisten
brightening, gladdening
her stark white kitchen
with a brief and modest blush.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI3ORQon9H309D7CSw3scMfr45LdcKh4Eg6hAGxAcT5z_vpIS_BgUbWnh0w5GpDRRMullBohupm9sF9tUveZ7nTF9AoHL0fgRzpqLKSgBF6jmvpF8nMc3MAyRtdQHzdasJN6ovSQ9XWqA/s200/cindy0111.jpg)
Art credit: "Cantaloupe Skin," by Paul Hartley.
The photo is nice
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