#997
Oranges by Joseph Davison-Duddles
Every summer, oranges grew like heartbeats:
my father went to the grave of his sister
and my mother picked them from the trees.
Mornings and nights were peeled from their days
and every day seemed a Sunday, a few fruit bathed
in cold water to slow their ripening.
Occasionally, with the oranges unwatched,
we would steal them early from the water –
our hands dripping across the kitchen floor.
The juice went sticky and stained our hands
till we soaked in the basin water at evening,
when the sun is a fruit on its lowest branch.
On those evenings, my father would sit
in the orchard after every fruit had fallen
and watch them change to molten shades.
Art by Laureano Barrau Recommended listening: Tonya Harding - Sufjan Stevens Links of the Day: Something Wonderful May Happen The deactivation effect Women Who Draw: Julia Rothman and Wendy MacNaughton Ceramicist Creates Rainbow-Colored Pots and Vases Dripping with Thick Glaze I'm off to Orange Festival to share my love for poetry with the other happy campers. If you're visiting Dambuk for the festival, come drop by the PoeTREE Corner, write/recite a poem, and eat some freshly plucked oranges! :)