Cut it open, reveal its
pure heart, and you see
in that dripping watermelon
center how aptly it is named.
And though its label promises
“seedless,” you spot the pale
seedlets dotting the interior
like little buttons. No black
seeds, but, of course, it has
to have grown from something,
as all pure hearts do. You regret
your greed on this hot day
that propelled you to cleave
this open heart, laying it bare
to the air and your waiting
spoon that hovers only briefly
before diving into that perfect
flesh, and savoring that flavor
before swallowing, adding,
at least metaphorically, a bit
of that pure heart to your own.
Güd wrtr 
Wonderful photo and poem that made my mouth water!
Just down the road from us are grown Hermiston watermelons, which I think have no equal anywhere. They benefit from long, sunny days on the high deserts of eastern Oregon and the mineral-rich loess soils blown in at the end of the last ice age. Irrigated by snowmelt waters from the Columbia River, they have a sweetness and moisture content that drips down the chin with every crunchy, red bite.
My grandmother used to toast watermelon seeds in butter and salt. They were amazing! She would also coarsely grate the rind (but not the tough skin) and use it in place of cabbage in coleslaw. Now THAT is a summer treat!