Ode to the quince

The quince is the electric yellow of a tennis ball one whacks.
The quince is the ugly child that comes later than expected.
The quince is a freak of nature, the bumper crop no one knows what to do with. One senses that they are nonetheless in possession of a goldmine.
The quince’s homeliness moves me to hold beauty pageants. This year’s winner is the one just out of reach I stretched for and found fetching.

and the winner is…...

and the winner is……

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