I.
Sun-spotted, light-drenched,
sky-blue, and white-washed clouds.
An island, desolate,
rocking with blue waves—
A lone coconut tree sways.
Warm tan fur, tawny and spindly,
against the crying winds of a salty day.
II.
A child gazes, wide-eyed,
at the coconut resting on the counter,
its skin weathered like the earth’s own callouses.
“Can I open it?” she asks,
as her small hands press and twist the shape.
She peers within—
the flesh, white and still,
is like a far-off melody,
too distant to hold,
too strange to keep.
III.
Trembling heartbeat,
winds howl their fury.
Rough shell battered,
husk stripped by
relentless gales.
Dark skies, no stars.
White flesh hidden,
liquid gold sloshing,
swaying against a rhythm of
the harsh winds,
pounding.
IV.
The man’s fingers hover—
light, hesitant—
as if the brown orb might shatter under touch.
He rolls it in his palm,
this thing from some faraway place,
its skin thick, the scent of salt air faint,
like a dream half-remembered.
He presses,
turns it this way and that,
no crack, no surrender.
His hands, unpracticed,
betray impatience—
he is the ocean against its shore,
but the coconut does not bend.
Yet, there’s something delicate
in the way he taps, taps, taps
on the stubborn shell.
It splits, and for a moment,
the air is filled with something
close to wonder—
the quiet hum of anticipation
as water spills like a secret.
V.
Hard yet yielding.
Dry yet lush.
Simple yet complex.
Familiar yet exotic.
VI.
I once kissed a coconut
on a lazy summer evening,
the fruit hot and heavy,
as if it had been endeared by the sun itself.
My lips were stained,
a clear stain, like the first breath of day,
like a promise made in a whispered language
no one had ever spoken before.
VII.
Almond Joy
Mounds
Cocadas
Piña Colada
Coconut Rice
Coconut Curry
Coconut Cream
VIII.
The coconut falls to the ground,
its skin still perfect,
untouched by the world’s roughness.
I wonder if it ever gets tired
of being so whole,
of being so firmly sealed against the world.
I wonder if it ever feels lonely;
its smooth skin hides such wildness.
But when it cracks open,
it’s as if it’s been waiting all along
for someone to see
what’s inside:
soft, white, hidden treasure.
I wonder if it longs to be eaten slowly,
to be savored in secret,
as if it knows that sweetness is not meant for all,
but only for those who can bear the weight of its truth.
IX.
She grates the coconut,
slow and deliberate,
as the shavings fall like snow,
each piece delicate and soft.
Flaky and shredded,
dissolving into silken strands,
melting between the buds of her tongue
like whispers of sunshine.
The flakes are mixed with sugar and cream,
a thick, silky mass, smooth as a whisper.
She stirs gently, watching the mixture thicken,
feeling the heat rise beneath her hands.
The scent fills the air,
warm, tropical,
a hint of something distant that tugs at the soul.
She pauses for a moment,
breathing it in—
this is how the world should smell
in its simplest form.
X.
There’s something soft about the coconut,
once cracked, reveals a gentleness that catches the light—
white, smooth, almost shy.
It reminds me of people I’ve met,
those sharp edges, those walls,
and how, when you finally peel them back,
there’s something surprising,
like the sweetness that spills
from the heart of a fruit,
unseen until it’s uncovered,
waiting in quiet patience for someone
to taste what’s inside.
XI.
Crayon scrawls across the page,
a yellow sun in the upper right corner.
Cheerful stick figures, cavemen,
nestled among the sand dunes,
Circle a coconut, round and brown,
its rough skin, textured with scribbled lines,
etched a playful smile.
XII.
Family dinner, all gathered round.
A night draped in warmth; joy twirls
like fireflies in the high atmosphere
as the blade arcs down with a graceful flair,
striking the brown-coated fur.
The inside splits open, and coconut water spills
out of sweet, creamy flesh, revealing
a taste of sun-soaked dreams.
The mother presses a piece to her lips—
the taste is unexpected,
earthy, pure,
like a moment too simple to explain.
She smiles, then passes the rest around the table,
like a ritual; the coconut’s sweetness is shared
in the quiet space between words.
XIII.
At dusk, I sit with the coconut,
its empty husk beside me.
The sun dips low,
painting the world in shadows,
and for a moment,
the taste lingers on my tongue—
the soft, clear water,
the crisp sweetness of the flesh.
It’s a fleeting thing,
this coconut,
but in that moment,
it’s everything.