Watermelon

When I ask about watermelons, the grey-haired grocer looks over the mound, sniffs for traces of earth where they once laid, heavy with water. He thumps, holds one up and whispers there’s a deep ring to ripeness. I lean to listen; sun faded rind still warm against my ear.

Karen’s in love with words, folklore, and the grain of tree bark and waves of color in her assemblage art. karenpiercegonzalez.blogspot.com