Roger D. Jones

The Melon Patch

I remember these melons in shin-high June grass, pale crescents shining in summer light. I recall their vines criss-crossing the field like power cords. I imagine standing in the clearing under a full moon, in the buzzing night air. Weeks later, home from college, I'm back. October: what melons were left unpicked lie like animal hides in withered weeds. The split-open skins dribble seeds onto cool ground like wasted syllables. When I kneel close, I can feel first frost hugging the land, winter soon to come.

wake-up call
close to my ear,
Mother whispers my name