Oh pineapple,
so regal and sweet,
you wear a crown so
green and bright, yet
you are no monarch.

Your pointed armor
may scare away some,
but I am not deceived.
For inside the sharp,
pointed layer
is treasure, golden
and delectable.

When your mother
brings you to this world,
she perishes. Her long,
sword-like leaves surround
you as her energy becomes yours.

Your crown brings life,
soon to be devoured.
Is it wrong to treat you this way?
Certainly, you must prefer
to satisfy rather than rot away
on the cold, dark, soil from whence
you came.

Your golden flesh adorns
my pizza, adding jewels
of beauty and blades
of flavor. Sweet,
yet tangy,
sharp, yet fragile.

Oh pineapple, are you really
Hawaiian? Are you
trapped by climate,
or do you simply prefer
the warmth?

You are superior.
Certainly no apple,
neither a pine.
You are the sun,
a god among fruit.