She sits in a rocker,
her face shaded
by a wide brim straw hat.
She rocks gently in a marred
cane back rocker; gnats
an ever present menace.
Beside her are melons,
some oval, some oblong,
some striped, some round
and dark, all stacked in
a large wooden bin.

This farmers market regular,
is quick to tell you that the
yellow spot on the underbelly,
once white on the ground,
is a sure way to tell the
melon is ripe. "When it turns
from white to yella, it's ready".
On a corner counter sits
a butcher knife and a
half sliced deep crimson oval.
"Sugar Baby" she says. "Want a bite?"
"Even the fruit flies likes this
one".

Years of intimacy with
the vagaries of sandy soil,
oppressive heat, balmy winds
and uncertain forecasts
grants her the authority to
point out with certainty
"crimson sweet", "king of hearts";
how they age from seed to market.
She compares "honey dews"
and "yellow dolls".

Isn't it wonderful she
is alive to ply her trade
as she sits in her rocker
surrounded by hot summers
and fresh melons?

From January Snow.
Used with the author's permission.