We were watermelon rich
those lazy autumn days.
The long hours we kept
vigil on the vines were gone
and all the husky gems of fruit
lay stretched in greening miles
waiting to be plucked.

There were days when kids
slid under barbed wire fences,
ever watchful and listening
for Grandfather’s footsteps
on the furrows.
It took two to lug melons
past boundaries set against
our trespasses.

Triangle chunks were carefully
chiseled and when plugs of pink
beseeched our eyes, we were sure
that it was ready.
They must have guessed-the older onesthe
patch had been invaded,
and all the scolds and whacks
upon our bottoms were only
momentary pain.
A boy who owns a picket knife
cannot be denied.

Here at last, along the riverbank,
we cracked fruit against the rocks,
and all the succulent smell of summer
drenched our chins
as we spat seeds of gold
on dry salt grasses.

Even now, fifty years gone past,
when I see green melons in a patch,
my hand itches for the knife.