When a sweet-scented papaya
Ripened on the last day of Cancer
It’s as if her fruit was destined
To be picked by a Leo,
For whom only her deliciousness
Could satisfy his ego.
Grown from a single, mother stem,
She swayed in the Island breeze
And played with nearby volcanoes.
Her flower spiraled into five parts,
Each like a unique chapter of life,
The last still longed to be written.
Wild and yet connected to her base,
Her foundation was noticeably scarred
Where leaves of her own were borne.
She was known to open up some nights,
The flesh of her fruit amber in the moonlight,
Superior and capable of self pollination,
But preferred the closeness of others.
She thrived when her home was moist,
Though nearly drowned in a few summer storms.
But, she always bounced back,
Nursed by creatures she befriended in dark soil.
She had the intuition and sustenance needed
To arrive as nature intended,
And let go into the hands of a Leo.
She recognized him by his warm charm
He was drawn to her playful confidence.
And, so the story goes,
She invited him to taste her soft fruit.
A Papaya at her peak,
When she was most vulnerable and ready.
And to his delight, he consumed
A mouthful of unforgettable raw flavor.
Volcanos erupted, water flowed, sun beamed.