The seed splits and spits a
newborn plant into
the loamy world
where it guzzles
good stuff from grit
along with water and time.
Eventually it pokes it’s tender
head above the bed
growing stronger in the sun,
sending leaves and vines sprawling
across the lawn,
maturing beneath a canopy of
moon and stars and daylight.
Green orbs hide beneath sheltering
foliage, growing and growing until,
as winds shiver and leaves wither,
the fruit ripens, ready to be picked.
A woman holds a streaked green melon against
the worn wooden cutting board and
slides the knife through crisp rind to
reveal tender pink innards which
she passes to an impatient child who
bites and chews and slobbers,
finally spitting the seed to the ground
where it dives into the dirt
and waits.
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