The Sun's Two Children

The Orange, a compact, humble sphere,

A captured sunset from the dying year.

Its skin, a leathery, pitted gold,

A modest story waiting to be told.

You press your thumb and break the zest’s bright spell,

A fragrant, sharp, and citrusy citadel.

Within, its segments, like a perfect choir,

Are juicy logic every heart desires.

It is the steady, cheerful, morning light,

A burst of vitamin and pure delight.

A tidy sun you hold within your hand,

To bless the wintered, weary, waiting land.

The Mango, summer’s king in bold attire,

A languid shape stoked by a tropical fire.

Its skin, a canvas of flushed green and red,

A reckless, passionate life it has led.

No tidy segments, but a golden sea,

A buttery, sweet, and wild complexity.

Its juice runs free, a sticky, sweet design,

A taste that feels less fruit and more like wine.

It is the lush, the decadent, the slow,

The scent of markets where the warm winds blow.

A messy, glorious, sun-drenched, splendid treat,

A tropical surrender, rich and sweet.

One is a clock, the other is a flame,

One has a structure, one a wild aim.

The Orange, logic, bright and neatly sliced,

The Mango, passion, perfectly unpriced.

So let the Orange cheer the frosty day,

And let the Mango steal your breath away.

For in this pair, the sun has shown its range

Both order’s comfort and delicious change.