On the frostbitten cerulean skyline
Lay scattered petals—roses, lilacs,
Hyacinths even—and beneath
The gentle-cheeked flowers lays
A bed of dried mango slices,
Smiling as they bask in sunlight
Which they deny the flowers above,
Reveling in their sibling-shade.
The grass beneath the mountains
Glowers green in envy of the few
Blessed mangoes plastered in the heavens,
For their time receiving sun’s
Sweet nothings passed not half an hour ago,
And they must wait eighteen times that
For another chance at flirtation.
How little they know the sun’s fickle nature,
Circling ‘round the watery sphere,
Spreading flighty words about
Where’er his gaze should flit.
The mangoes know his nature,
And so smile, but nothing more,
Secure in their own station—
Holding up the flowers, staring down the grass,
And flicking away flirtation.
The horizon’s lined with dried cranberries,
A painful alluring comparable
To the sun’s, whom they toss further
‘Round the Earth come sunset.
I want to eat the mangoes and cranberries,
Not because they are some delight
Bound to the heavens,
But because I am hungry and love sweet things.