Oranges

Oranges

Oranges in winter

jeweled segments

pulled apart precisely

A sadness

Consuming the flesh of the sun

Stillness

porcelain plate

with a line of blue

the edges morning

At least what is quiet

is pure, at least what is laid out -

predictable

At least

the familiarity of winters

stacked upon winters

At least

this moment before

remembered

entered again

The sun - harvester of faith

to be carried nowhere but back

to the center of things

Sweet jewels, within

Cold as the juice runs out

dreaming over ridges of white,

gleaned orange from autumn’s leaves.

Between the strength of teeth

Grown over in years,

replaced in childhood -

the first thing lost

willingly

Yellow roses left

from the holiday

gone brown

Carnations shy heads held up

The unending weatherers

of time - the most practical

of the pretty