I fuse into its colours: the sunny meat Of melons under their rough green rind: The contained sweet gloze of grapes: the kiss Of a blue knife through pear flesh. My hands are sure and capable, Judging the peel of skin just right To collapse the unbruised flesh in my palm, Placing it rightly for my decision To eat, to slice, to chop. All my awareness settles in my hands With the deep surrender of pleasure. I make my best fruit salads this way: Hungering for them. BY Alison Croggon from “This is the Stone”