ORANGES
For MJM 1946-1995
Felt it coming, I’ll bet, the earth’s
final invitation.
Lying motionless in dry grass
under a leaning tree
you watch a slatted sky pour
the ripened sun.
A steely Santa Anna
furnaces noonday leaves just beyond
your reach.
Light bathed fruit,
like a Hopper still life,
draws your finished thoughts.
A petal crested orange,
like a jeweled pendant,
bobs in sun’s center at the side door
of your vision. Another,
directly overhead, winks into life,
winks out.
You can feel their pulpy flesh
behind your eyes,
little membranes in juice, ruptured,
ebbing…
With ruined breath
and pupils saucerd in
blinding light
you take a final look:
the last oranges hanging,
unpeeled.