Apricots: an Ode

Apricots: an Ode
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Yon freckled heralds of high summer,

Not totally un-testicular:

In a band, you would be the drummer,

Or a schoolbus, if vehicular:

Insufficiently venerated,

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.

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