A poem for my mother.
–
In our house
(When the need arises)
You cut watermelons
Take the carving knife
Gently
And bring it to bear
On the rough edges that hide our fruit
Inspect the flesh
It is flawed
no doubt
but without rot
Slice it in even orderly parts
The best for serving
And pick out the seeds if asked
By more picky mouths
When done, put what you find
In a clear plastic tub:
Tuck it in safe and sound
It is quiet, boring work
And you are not thanked
Often enough
For cutting watermelons
But there are precious things within
And it is your hands
That bring them to light
Autumn Eternal Fiction 