Orange
the juiced mist
sprung free of the peel
at each seam ripped open
lingers now like a distant ghost
or holy memory
perfuming the air
with what smells to you
like citrus sin.
with each tiny burst of sun
sweet light
you thank its mother tree
and the man in Florida or California
who picked from it
the perfect form that now sits
pulled apart in your hands
mirroring your own.
-Anonymous
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