Papaya Seeds (Haiku)

Haiku, Journal, Life in Taiwan, Poetry / Tuesday, February 12th, 2019

White papaya seeds

patiently waiting, revealed—

squinting in the sun.

White papaya seeds

impatiently cast away,

never to turn black.


Over the Chinese New Year, my father-in-law gave us a papaya, which his papaya tree had kindly and ingeniously grown. That was a week ago, however, and so, this morning, I decided it was time to cut the fruit open, even though it was still green, with not a hint of orange on its skin. I didn’t want it to go bad, which has happened before.

Slicing it in half revealed over one hundred albino seeds clinging to pale green flesh. They seemed to be shying away from the light, squinting even. I felt bad spooning them out, watching them scatter into the sink, like tiny pebbles of potential.

The flesh is still usable, though. We’ll be making a soup out of it. Not all is lost. Such soup is ideal for the chilly Taiwanese winter we’re currently going through.



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