-This poem reflects on cold melon in the heat of the afternoon, where high summer turns its intensity into refreshment, sweetness, and simple relief.
Cold from the icebox and cut in wedges,
it shines on the plate in kitchen light,
pink as the inside of late July,
sweet with water, shade, and field.
Outside the yard still holds its heat,
the porch boards warm, the garden still,
but here the fruit gives something back,
a coolness summer makes from sun.
The knife has opened more than rind,
it lifts the hidden mercy out,
the tender flesh, the dark small seeds,
the quiet relief of what can nourish.
So much of high summer comes to this,
not only blaze, but what softens it,
the season gathered to the hand,
then broken open into sweetness.