Orange

The orange shown through slow revolutions,

Near perfect hint that the world is round.

Glow in their constellations of trees

Where orchards root out an existence.

The child who tore skin to reach the segments

Learnt with knife to peel one long curl.

Segments scrumptious they gorged at once (twice)

Who later set out boat lines at leisure.

It’s impossible to think of other worlds

Where this is so or where blossom bursts

In early spring before bird-nets appear.

Where raincloud insists and persists and desists

Enough for sunlight, that hints and bursts

And afterwards curls in air so many colours.