It's one of my last oranges
grown some couple thousand miles away
on land where I lived
from seven to eighteen.
My parents still live there.

the orange mottled with smudges
earth I guess
the stuff I was originally made of
i am indeed a native of earth

the orange smells
of poignancy
of Louisiana sun
and rich loam
sultry fragrant air
a weeping willow
and fig tree long dead
things grow easily

the orange’s thin skin
opens beneath my thumbnail
its torn inner fruit
running with juices
pale and delicate

we had goats
and haggard horses
with no duties but to wander the pasture
and eat where they would.
how can an orange
contain their companionable voices?
even now there’s a horse trough
whose algae supports
a half dozen goldfish

Wild pecans grow
of certain shape, flavor, texture
shells thick or thin
depending on the tree
and the vagaries of the season.
There was wild cherry
when I was a girl
and if you look down in the grass
close to the earth
you may find violets
or wild strawberries.
The blackberries and spider lilies are long gone
but azaleas bloom
like water from a fountain
pink on pink on pink

Oranges it seems grow
as effortlessly as the sun rises each day.
the dark glossy tree
just stuck in the ground and left alone
is now mature and bountiful.
who knew
the land could
offer something unexpected
something beautiful
late after our
self-absorbed arrival.
who knew its fruit
could travel so far.