Ripe Fruit - Poem by James McLain
I see her ever smiling face.
Aloft I hold a flag.
The fruit she sells.
It keeps us all alive.
The avacodos picked when green.
Tan blond peaches everywhere.
Purple grapes and tangerines.
Are called out, hawking wares.
The smell of water mellon,
seems to fill the humid air.
She comes each day and always stops,
ripe fruit, is eaten there.
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