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An Ode to kiwi (by Bub)

Written by: Josh December 13 2011 Oh my sweet green tropical goodness, let me count the ways I love thee. Okay, I can’t count, so let’s just call it a gajillion, give or take. I love your juiciness—not too dribbly, but not shy, either. Just right. I love your soft innards, the luscious green only...

Written by: Josh

Oh my sweet green tropical goodness, let me count the ways I love thee. Okay, I can’t count, so let’s just call it a gajillion, give or take.

I love your juiciness—not too dribbly, but not shy, either. Just right. I love your soft innards, the luscious green only outdone by the soft inner white, a tangy tongue-pillow. And then there are your seeds. So copious, so abstract, so fun to excrete.

Sometimes I stare at the Monet-ish designs for hours like one of those 3-D paintings. Or at least until P&M try to take you away. But they will never take you away from me, Kiwi. No one will.

I feel like you are the only one who understands me. You know exactly what I like—sweet, tinge of sour, whiff of tropical breeze—and you give it to me selflessly. You are good to me in dark times. When P&M try to impersonate you with broccoli or zucchini or avocado, I’m not fooled. You’re the only green in my rainbow, Kiwi.

And not just any green. Yours is the green of glistening dewlapped grass, the green of an Irish lea after the first spring shower, a green that pales the Dresden diamond. I hear they even named a country after you—Greenland. You’re an ethnonym for New Zealanders. And also a bird. And, paraphrasing Mr. Big here, I’m the one who wants to nest with you.

I hear more and more people these days talking about “going green.” Well, all I can say is, I was here first, peeps, so back the truck up. Kiwi and I are in love. When I grow up, we shall be married—consider this my proposal. I don’t have a ring, but I have my word. And a Cheerio. Mango shall be my best man. You’ll wear a playful hat, I’ll wear ruffles, and we will dance to early 90s slow-jams.

What I love about you more than anything is your inner beauty, Kiwi. It’s true that if beauty were only rind-deep, you would might find yourself in the the proverbial red-headed stepchild line. The back of it. Yes, it’s almost as if you fell off the kiwi tree and hit every branch on the way down. Then landed in a pile of of untreated sewer water. Then grew the beard of a fifteen year-old. But I see through all that; I love you for the real you. So much that I’m going to write you a quick haiku:

Brown, fuzzy, strange shell.
When opened, you surprise me.
Green, juicy lovefest.

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