Breakfast in Winter
I carve the melon with my mother’s spoon
and tip its silver rim until eclipsed─
the edge becomes a crescent stainless moon
that holds a falcate ball of honeydew
with fragrance permeating morning air
it drips like sugar-leaves where aphids prey
on sticky sweetness feeding everywhere
with mouthparts piercing sappy greens
that catch a sunny ray and plant to plant
extract the heavy juice until they drain
the goodness from the leaf. A life replete
becomes a fallacy in this domain
with cutup parts all remnants of the whole
dividing rind from fruit into a bowl.