Yon freckled heralds of high summer,
Not totally un-testicular:
In a band, you would be the drummer,
Or a schoolbus, if vehicular:
Despite your glorious yellows.
Hark, the ardor generated
By your pitted, fuzzy fellows,
Peaches, for example: Yes,
And mangoes, with their wetsuit skin,
Command fond legions who confess
Love even for the Mandarin:
Ubiquitous, despotic, subtle
As a traffic cone, so snide
Inside its rind. Silky 'cot, what'll
Win you worship? Tongues divide
That flesh -- Hosanna! Sherbet-soft --
In milliseconds. Hear it croon
Its custard lullaby, aloft
Warm winds among the lucky. June.
July. Sun-spawned balm: rosy gold,
Tender enough for temples, hot
In hand, bright sunrise we can hold.
Are watermelons this? They're not.
Illustration by Anneli Rufus.