Dance of the Fruitflies
Outside my window is a papaya tree,
loaded with fruits mostly green
awaiting maturity for consumption
while smaller ones ripen from corruption.
One papaya fully matured almost yellow,
camouflaged by leaves and nature 's halo.
Ever noticed that the papaya when ripe
exudes translucent light, dancing to entice?
Fascinated I was when staring at the fruitlink,
golden yellow changes orangey, then reddish pink.
Like space beams unseen by bored bland eyes,
blind to the fanfare and the dance of the fruitflies.
Of courtship romancing every minute of the day,
nature's breath forever throbbing in sexual play,
Vital as of birds, the bees and all God's creations
reproduction is the essence and seeds proliferation.
Incessant intercourse is nature's scheme in union
with foreplay imperative for nectars ripe for fusion.
Mesmerized, the dance of birds honed in on erotic colours,
as fruit blushed, birds stimulated created chaos in palours.
Tweeting, wings flipping, screeching in agonizing pain,
Agitated in delirious arousal, little hearts beating under strain.
Synchronised flying directly at the yellow flirt,
birds eye view they flew, all aiming 'neath the skirt.
Oh! the fate of them which ripen before their time,
sickly, watery coloured babies, pricked and stymied.
Nature's errors, good only as food for pests and waste,
ripen before time so no seed for birds to propagate.
Fallen prey to imitating droning of the bird's courting cries,
greenies inveigle arousing only the Dance of the Fruitflies.
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