Squatting in my bowl,

Like a fertility god.

Smooth gold,

Speckled

Three different greens -

Like the eyes of a boyfriend long ago.

 

A wooden stalk curves elegant,

It’s the top of a beret!

Perhaps, you’re French,

A revolutionary.

Or a Scot.

 

Perfumed scents of rose and clover

Rise as I smell your skin

Heavy in my hand,

Skin yielding to my thumb.

 

But your time is fleeting.

As early as the morning,

This firm, clear unblemished sweetness

May quickly be no more.

 

And so, I celebrate you now.

Right now.

Before I sully you with sugar or custards.

I acknowledge your voluptuous beauty

Your tufted dimpled navel.

And that fresh, crisp taste of sunshine

That is yours and yours alone.

 

© Speranza