The Orange

I picked an orange from a tree

And held it close to my face.

I cupped my hands

Around it

And felt its weight

Against my palms.

I stared in awe

At its perfect imperfect

Shape

And glorious 

Color.

I pressed it to my nose

And inhaled its

Sweet

Scent.

I laid it gently

On the table.

It lost its balance,

Rolled off, 

And fell to the floor.

I scooped it up again

And kissed it.

I love this orange,

And this orange loves me.

And I will never forget the day

I picked an orange from a tree.

(La Quinta, May 2008)