With apologies to Robert Frost

She is as in a fridge a mirabelle
In summer when the radiating heat
Has dried the dew, and led the fruit to swell,
So that with care it’s set aside to eat,
And its adorning blush upon the skin
That paints its yellow with a dusky bloom,
And signifies the sweetness found within,
Shows that it’s fit for breakfast to consume;
Yet though it’s hid away for just that fate
A place where it will stay both cold and fresh,
There still remains a man who cannot wait,
And only by the pressure on its flesh
As he removes it from the Frigidaire
Is of the grasping poet made aware.