Poetry is Freedom: My Mango

My Mango
My mango tastes like music,
the music of flowers crowded into a green
grassy garden with sunshine flowing down
in great torrents and buckets whooshing over the earth,
flooding everything in glowing gold.

Lava, like frangipani and moss,
light and airy, dancing, hovering, gently landing.
It barely touches the ground, the earth.
Gentle and caressing, tentative and kind.

Wild with delight and joy; shivering
relishing that delicious sensation
of yellow creeping over my skin.

How can something come blasting down
from a hot angry ball and come
to land so gently and lover-like on my skin?

It smells like the skin of oranges and gently dried
lavender and bergamot oil minus the licorice.

It smells like bare feet on a wild summer night,
surrounded by the riotous concert of crickets
and cicadas, tumbling through wicked vines,
laughter somersaulting through the air which is alive
with glittering particles of magical fairy dust
from some unseen Tinkerbelle.

The word fragrance becomes deeper and more imbued
with meaning.

It smells like the sun.

-Pliny the Dreamer