It sat there like a bullfrog waiting; watching.
All week those porcupine quills jutted out –
spiked soldiers of some fruited war.
A leafy top-hat turning yellow in the sun
broke through the crown – a chieftain’s plumage.
One day mama sliced it clean down,
and sunshine fell around us like little clowns.
You tasted it and spit it out
as if it were some strange rock
your brother’d teased you into sampling.
Next day you came home to this:
an upside-down cake filled with golden circlets,
and a cherry picking line scrawled across it;
candles lit, people smiling: a birthday for your turning!
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.