Ode to the Mango

It hangs upon the emerald bough,

A captured sunset, even now.

A teardrop shape of gold and red,

A king of fruits, it must be said.

Its skin is smooth, a blushing cheek,

A promise that the senses seek.

You press it gently, feeling give,

A signal that it's time to live.

Then take the knife and make a slice,

The moment is so precise.

A burst of color, deep and sweet,

A tropical and rich retreat.

No tidy cube, no prim disguise,

This is a feast for happy eyes.

You eat it leaning o'er the ground,

The best of flavors yet unfound.

It's sunshine, thick and meant to sip,

It's summer smiling on your lip.

It's sticky hands and happy face,

A messy, sweet, and pure embrace.

The pit remains, a fibrous core,

A testament to wanting more.

A souvenir of bliss enjoyed,

A memory sweetly employed.

So let the apple be so neat,

The mango's victory is complete.

For in its juicy, wild design,

You taste the sun, and life divine.