watermelon

A bundle of pink flesh

Inside the green rind

Water-filled sweetness, 

Glowing without-

One interruption

To disturb my knife.

A preference realized to remove the seeds;

To usher them into extinction

All for convenient slicing....

I look, and remember-

The dirty fields behind Grandma’s house,

Where the old stuff

Went walking with us.

We wound up our tongue

And spit them-

The furthest.  

Later the seedlings

Would appear:

Doomed to die of thirst

Without a gardener.

Now  doomed to die from within...

For me.

So my knife won’t be interrupted

Welcome home.