Mourning The Orange

Neglected, the orange suffers a fate 
foreign to blossom-hope splashed upon limb. 
Greening and crumpled, 
it limps though the grate, 
leaking its way across leftover dregs. 

An acrid pong, discordant song, 
surrounds the once sweet music-flesh,
sun-filled notes that fell to silence
inside the stillness of an unturned world.

A gust of names with partial faces 
slipstreams thoughts from long ago places 
lost among winters of mind and matter.
I rummage for oranges, 
among the shadows, and find only skins, 
frozen and pale,
 withered and scattered--

I could have sown a few of those dreams.

Tonight, I will mourn my orange.
 

First published in Lily, Volume 1, Issue 2; January, 2004.