Oranges – A Poem

 

Oranges

She bought him oranges the day
he came home.
Driving with her, she spoke poetic
of spring

“I love the blossoming trees.
Their sweet, brilliant
color.
And see how the green goes up and up.”

She was to cut the oranges into small
pieces for him
and, having her fill
of death and waste, hope nestled
lovingly into her.

But spring speaks in irony,

and the orange I had for lunch
at my desk
went untouched by her, never
to pass his lips.

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2 thoughts on “Oranges – A Poem

    • Sorry for the lateness in repsonding. Thank you for the comment. It was a long weekend, and the oranges were a particular symbol of it. A more directly personal poem than I normally write.

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