Ode to the Crescent

Not from a lofty bough does it depend,

But from a tender, layered, leafy friend.

A cheerful yellow crescent, curved and sleek,

A silent strength within a yielding cheek.

No core of stone, no pip to be excused,

No fussy rind, no artistry abused.

Just simple seams that part with gentle tear,

To grant the soft and satin fruit laid bare.

A tidy package, nature’s perfect snack,

For energy you never seem to lack.

A potassium boost, a soothing, gentle balm,

A quiet port in life’s most hectic calm.

It asks for nothing knife, nor plate, nor spoon,

It graces breakfast, lunch, or afternoon.

A humble arc, a smile from the tree,

The world's most perfect fruit, for you and me.